


Time Will Explain

by meraculas



Category: Endeavour (TV), Father Brown (2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Original Character(s) - Infants, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2018-03-28
Packaged: 2018-09-21 02:51:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9528614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meraculas/pseuds/meraculas
Summary: Joan Thursday fled Oxford all the way to the little village of Kembleford where she soon makes the acquaintance of local priest and amateur sleuth, Father Brown.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note that the timeline for Endeavour has been pushed from the 1960s to the 1950s.  
> Title from Jane Austen's Persuasion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timeline wise, for Father Brown this is set around series 4 and maybe into 5 (you gotta love Bunty) but it had originally been set during 3. With Endeavour, like I've already mentioned, I've turned the clock back a decade so instead of the 60s it's in the 50s and of course this is all post-3.

# Chapter One

          _"You mean the world to me."_

          Joan woke with a start; shooting up in bed, the covers falling off around her. She blinked against the darkness of the room and tried to count to ten in order to even out her breathing. Eventually it did. She was just burrowing back beneath the covers when a wail pierced the silence of the room and with only the faintest of sighs she threw the covers off and rose to begin what would likely be another long day.

          It took an hour to get the baby to stop crying and fed and by then the sun had begun to rise over the rooftops of her neighbour's cottage homes. She was rocking Verity to sleep in her arms, murmuring soft nothings and wishing she remembered the lullabies her mother used to sing to her. For half a moment Joan considered calling her mother up and asking, but that would only lead to too many questions that even a year after her departure she couldn't answer.

          Finally the infant was asleep and returned to her bassinet. Joan made the trek downstairs to her small kitchen where she made a quick breakfast of eggs and toast before heading back upstairs for a bath. Dressed for the day she carefully picked her sleeping daughter up and brought her outdoors to the waiting pram.

 

          Joan Thursday arrived in Kembleford fearing the police. Just the week prior she'd gone to a village hospital feeling unwell and learned she was pregnant. Joan hadn't taken the news well and fled the hospital, not settling her bill.

          Unfortunately she'd also run out of money by then. She'd been crying--she did that a lot now, and her condition explained some of it--when the kind Catholic priest found her seated outside his church.

          Father Brown had asked why she'd been crying. In that instant she told him everything. Well, perhaps not _everything_ , she had enough mind still to keep to the story she had partially been living under.

          "-And they just shot him." She wailed as the scene played out again in her mind. "They shot him, and now--and now I've just learnt that I'm pregnant. What am I going to do?"

          The Father pulled her in and hugged her. Joan turned her face into his shoulder and tried to dry her still falling tears on his robe--she had no idea what it was called.

          "Have you thought about going home?" He asked after a few minutes.

          Joan pulled back and looked at him, eyes red, "I can't do that. My father--he was his boss. My husband died in front of my on the day of my last shift before our honeymoon and my father was his boss. I can't go home. I left because of all that. Because they were police officers. I can't--I just can't."

          Father Brown nodded stiffly, but something in his eye caught her attention. "Why don't you come and stay at the presbytery, Mrs Morse. My secretary, Mrs McCarthy, might make a bit of a fuss but I'm sure we can win her over. And we'll help get you settled here in Kembleford if you like."

          She smiled through her tears and nodded, allowing the priest to help her to her feet. He collected her bags and then led her up the pathway and to what would become her home for the next month and a half before Lady Felicia had found her a little cottage.

 

          She'd been adamant about wanting a job. Nobody would have her once they learned of her condition, but under continued pressure from Father Brown, Mrs McCarthy, Lady Felicia, and Sid, Inspector Mallory--feeling a surprising wave of pity at her having lost her police officer husband--agreed to hire her. She came in daily to keep the police station clean.

          When she first learned a month into her new life in Kembleford--before she'd moved out of the presbytery--that Father Brown was an amateur sleuth, she'd thrown a fit. Mrs McCarthy supported her in every single one of Joan's ravings about how police work was dangerous. Joan even mentioning the times Morse and her father were shot. She came close to mentioning Morse's having been arrested, but that was all because of police corruption and would have likely made the papers, even out here in Kembleford--so she kept that quiet just in case.

          She had just nearly convinced herself to turn her back on Father Brown's kindness and leave Kembleford when she came across of report on Inspector Mallory's desk while cleaning. Without even thinking she'd stuffed it into her apron pocket and shown it to the Father once she'd returned to the presbytery after she'd finished in the afternoon.

          By the end of the day the killer had been arrested and it had all been because of what she'd found.

          It still made her uneasy, Father Brown being involved in police investigations. She always got horrible premonitions of his demise--or the demise of one of his sleuthing assistants. That fear would lessen as she sat around Father Brown's kitchen table, nibbling on one of Mrs McCarthy's strawberry scones and having a sip of tea; watching Father Brown try to solve the case reminded her so much of Morse it almost hurt. They both had this cerebral quality to them, and this quiet light would show up with a quirk of the head when they figured something out. Not that she'd gotten to see Morse work often, her father always kept her away from police business and Morse had adopted the same philosophy.

          Whenever the killer was caught she'd always breathe this massive sigh of relief and say a prayer of thanks that everyone was safe. And yes, somehow loathsome Inspector Mallory was included in her prayer.

 

          Things changed the day that Flambeau arrived in Kembleford. In the back of her mind she'd been aware of Father Brown's hushed conferences with Sid in the days leading up to the notorious thief's appearance. Regrettably she hadn't made anything of them until she walked into the presbytery kitchen complaining about how sore her back and feet were, dropped into a chair and accepted a cup of tea from a bearded stranger.

          Joan admits to blindness as her aches and pains that day were many--not just from her being seven and a half months pregnant, but also from having had to listen to Inspector Mallory rant about cardinals not trusting his police force, or something to that affect--that it took a rather long lull of silence and her having finished her cup of tea to notice something was off.

          Finally the beard registered with her, "Who is this?"

          Mrs McCarthy groaned and buried her head in her arms. Lady Felicia's gaze narrowed in fierce glare rivaled only by Sid's. Father Brown swallowed deeply though an eyebrow also raised in either surprise or amusement. The bearded stranger simple leaned back in his chair and smiled.

          "Do we like him?" Joan asked Father Brown before thinking better of it and turned to Sid, "Do we trust him?"

          "No!" Sid responded venom in his voice.

          As Father Brown scolded Sid the stranger laughed. Joan took another long look at everyone in the room, a hand now resting somewhat protectively over her swollen belly. "Why is he still here?" Again she turned to Sid, "Why haven't you gotten rid of him?"

          "Now where did you find this one?" The stranger finally said, directing his question to Father Brown.

          "Now you listen here," Mrs McCarthy said rising to her full--if slightly diminutive--height, "if you go anywhere near that poor girl I'll--I'll--I'll take my bible to you."

          The stranger laughed again and raised his cigarette to his lips. "She doesn't have anything to worry about from me. Pregnant women just don't do it for me."

          Mrs McCarthy gasped and floundered while Joan swayed her way to her feet. "Now I don't know who you are but you'd best think twice before trying anything with me or my friends."

          The stranger blew out a cloud of smoke as he leaned across the table towards her. "And why is that?"

          "That's enough," Father Brown finally said cutting them off, "Joan why don't you sit back down you said you were in pain. And please try and show some compassion Flambeau-"

          "You!" Joan cried hearing the name, "you came to Oxford a year or so back. Gave my dad a chase after you stole that ring."

          Flambeau's eyes took on a critical look as he looked her over again. Joan couldn't help thinking he might have been caught if Morse hadn't been on compassionate leave after his father's death.

          "Your father is police?" Flambeau finally asked.

          Joan set her jaw, "and so was my husband." Her eyes welled up as the hand with the pawn shop ring she'd found rubbed where she felt the baby kick.

          Mrs McCarthy and Lady Felicia both came to her side to comfort her as she heard Father Brown quietly say, "her husband was killed in a bank robbery two days after they wed."

          The next day she was coming out of the post office to find Flambeau looking up at the building the Queen's coronation cross was being held in. The building was across the street from the bank, and he was leaning against the building a cigarette at his lips.

          Nervously she approached him, "sorry about your daughter." She said by way of greeting. "Do you really think you can get the cross?"

          Flambeau turned to look at her and Joan expected to receive a condescending look that silently asked if she was stupid because of course he could; instead he looked unsure. His answer was anything but, "of course, I don't have any other choice." She nodded and turned to leave him when he spoke again, "and I'd say sorry for your husband but I'm not sure just which parts of that tale of yours is the lie and which is truth."

          She turned back both surprised and horrified at what he'd said.

          "I know how to lie, _Mrs_ Morse. You don't think I can't tell when other people lie as well?" She deflated at his response.

          Just then Inspector Mallory walked passed. "And who is this?" He asked pointing a finger and a glare at Flambeau, "he isn't giving you any trouble is he?"

          And just like that day in his office so many months ago when she'd found that report, Joan acted before she even knew what she was doing. She threaded an arm through Flambeau's and gave the Inspector her best haughty look, "of course he isn't. This is my older brother..." she floundered for a second trying to think of a name "...Henry Thursday. He's just come in for a few days to visit. Henry, this is Inspector Mallory, he's been kind enough to give me a job keeping the police station clean."

          Joan gave the thief on her arm a look and silent plea to play along and he did. Smiling and shaking Mallory's hand. He even joked about not working her too hard given her condition but how happy everyone back home would be to hear how well she's been cared for.

          Mallory walked away and Joan slapped Flambeau's arm, "what was that?"

          He looked down at her and smiled, "just playing the part you gave me, though I could have handled it myself."

          "Oh I'm sure, and how would that have looked?" She asked dropping his arm to place her hands on her hips.

          "I would have said I was a reporter, asking about Kembleford's opinion on having the coronation cross here."

          "Oh, that's not as bad as I thought it would have been." Joan admitted defeated. She hadn't thought what his response would be but it certainly wasn't that.

          "So, Detective Fred Thursday, that's your father." He stated forcing her to turn back to him after she'd begun leaving.

          "Yes he is, what of it?"

          "Just trying to figure out my family." He responded with a laughing smile, "and our mother?"

          She glared, crossing her arms over her chest, "Win, and I have a younger brother named Sam. He's left to join the army."

          Flambeau nodded, "good for him. See you later, _darling sister_."

          Joan came to regret helping Flambeau that afternoon when a week after he'd disappeared she came home to her cottage after visiting Father Brown to find a wrapped box with a card sitting on her kitchen table. The card was simple with only the words 'darling sister' and in the box was a stuffed bear. A receipt was pinned to the bear's chest that showed two boxes of cigarettes and a Spanish atlas had been purchased alongside the bear.

          Joan had been angry at first and then she laughed. The next day she showed Father Brown the gift, more so the receipt because of the atlas, and he too laughed. Sid simply vowed revenge. They were all of the opinion that the atlas was not a clue but rather a red herring as to his location. Flambeau was no idiot.

 

          In the hours after having finally given birth to her daughter, Joan lost her wits. Thankfully Father Brown was her only visitor at the time as she told him everything. Everything about that day in the bank. Everything about Morse--including the fact that she didn't know his first name. Everything about why she left Oxford.

          She laid bare every secret she had brought with her to Kembleford.

          Father Brown simply held her hand as she cried around her horrible truth before telling her that everything would be alright.

          She forgot about her breakdown in the hospital until she arrived home from doing some shopping to find a letter on her kitchen table. The same greeting was written on the envelope and when she opened the card inside she found Flambeau's congratulations. The card floored her, but not as much as the black and white candid photo that fluttered out.

          Morse. He was bent over looking at something. She couldn't tell what and a dark part of her wondered if it was a body. The back of the photo had a date written on it; one week ago. It also had his name. Endeavour Morse.

          She chuckled to herself knowing his first name. She remembered once hearing him say his mother was a Quaker, it's why she picked Verity for their daughter's name.

          Then Joan remembered the hospital and Father Brown. She had specifically chosen the name Verity because it meant truth and she wanted her daughter to be the first true thing she did in Kembleford. She just took truth too far and told Father Brown every little last bit of it.

          She checked on the infant still sleeping in her pram and headed for the presbytery. Father Brown was walking down the pathway as she was coming up.

          "Joan, what can we do for you today?"

          "What I said, in the hospital after Verity was born-"

          "Is between you, me, and God. I shan't say a thing if you don't want me to."

          Joan deflated slightly hearing that, "thank you so much Father." Father Brown nodded and together they headed back up the path to the presbytery.

          Later as she was leaving, she pulled the photo from inside the pram and showed it to Father Brown. He looked at it for several minutes, after taking in the writing on the back.

          "So this is him." He finally said handing it back to her. She nodded wordlessly. "Where did you get that?"

          "A card from Flambeau." She admitted in a guilty whisper.

          "Ah." Father Brown replied with a curt nod. "I can't tell if he's playing a game or if you've somehow earned his admiration."

          Joan laughed, "it's a game for him Father. He knew I'd lied about Morse from the start and called me on it. Then, stupidly, I gave him a cover when Inspector Mallory came around."

          "Yes, you said he was your brother. Why?"

          "I don't know. It was the first thing I thought of. And I don't know why I helped him. I just ... acted. Believe me, I regret it."

          Father Brown smiled, "if it is a game, I'm sure he'll tire of it in time."

          "Like he's tired of the games he plays on you?" She asked horrified as she realized she almost sounded like Mrs McCarthy.

          Father Brown frowned, "true." He perked up suddenly, "but I'm sure our circumstances are different."

 

          She arrived at the presbytery that morning to drop Verity off with Mrs McCarthy and then began the trek to the police station for her first day back at work. She ran into Sid along the way and accepted a ride.

          They chatted about nonsense the whole way to the station and when they arrived outside it Joan found herself having trouble stepping out of the car.

          "Nervous to be back?" Sid asked looking her over with one of his sly, knowing grins.

          "No. Yes." She let out a quick chuckle as she looked at him fully, "a little of both I suppose."

          "It'll be fine. Mallory only has you working a few hours. I'll come by and pick you up at lunch, how's about. That's when you finish today, isn't it?" She nodded, ringing her hands in her lap. Finally she smiled at her friend and stepped out of the car.

          Pausing before she closed the door behind her she turned back and pulled an envelope from her purse. "I need a favour, Sid, and as little questions as possible. Can you head to another village and post this letter?" She asked holding the envelope up to him between two shaking fingers.

          To his credit Sid's brow only furrowed as he nodded his head and took her offering. "How far you want me to go?"

          "Doesn't have to be far, I just don't want it posted from Kembleford."

          "This is addressed to Oxford. You sure about this?"

          "Please, Sid, if you ask me that I'll lose my nerve and take it back." She responded, hand still outstretched though it was empty.

          "Understood. Take care, Joan, and I'll come pick you up when you finish."

          She smiled and nodded, hand finally falling so she could close the car door, "thank you Sid."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flambeau truly is a thief. He was only supposed to be in this until Father Brown explained what happened to Joan's husband, but he just kept butting in. I blame having started writing this after the Father Brown 5 finale.
> 
> More is coming, don't know how much since I haven't finished writing the story; I like to have it all written before posting that way if I get blocked there isn't a year before I get back to it.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, a little timeline thing (I won't do this every chapter). As I was writing this and some upcoming chapters I realized I had a disturbing lack of understanding for how the calendar was turning in my own story, so here we go. Joan left Oxford in mid-June (as in Endeavour), Verity was born in March. Further information (as is relevant to this chapter) will be presented at the end to avoid spoilers.

# Chapter Two

          Christmas was a time of joy and good cheer, so why then did Joan feel as if the world was collapsing in around her? Again.

          It was Verity's first Christmas and Joan was prepared for laughter and lack of sleep and even some screaming; she had not been prepared for Verity becoming colicky in the weeks leading up to Christmas resulting in nothing but screaming, crying, and lack of sleep. And that was her herself as well as the baby.

          Holiday cheer was lacking further with Sid's being in prison for a crime everyone except the police knew he hadn't committed. Father Brown had mounted a heavy defence for Sid but nothing could be done. His absence was painfully obvious whenever they met around Father Brown's table and they sat in silence too long.

          And all that had nothing on the chaos that resulted in Lady Felicia's cousin, the Duke of Frome's, arrival. Apparently the diocese wanted the perfect Catholic Christmas for the Catholic Duke, never mind such a thing would be impossible. When Mrs McCarthy came to her asking to borrow Verity to play baby Jesus in the nativity play, Joan had refused, the infant entering into hour number three of constant crying behind her. Mrs McCarthy had seemed both relieved and insulted by Joan's refusal.

          And then came the kidnapping for the Duke's heir.

          Joan had cruelly been relieved when she heard on the kidnapping. Lady Felicia had invited her to the Christmas ball she was throwing saying that the nanny brought in could look after Verity. Joan had, at the time refused, and when she heard what had happened she was ever so relieved she had. She regretted her relief once she felt it, but she could not fight the fact that she had. It could have been her child that was kidnapped rather than the Duke's heir.

          At least the child had been found. There was the whole do about him not being the Duke's son and that the Duke had technically been the one guilty of kidnapping. Despite all that things seem to have ended well, the Duchess was in fact pregnant again.

          So far the new year was shaping up to be about as frustrating as the end of the previous had been. Inspector Mallory was as odious as ever--if anything he seemed to have gotten worse with his attacks of gout; Mrs McCarthy seemed to have let her success with the Christmas display get to her head and was now ordering everyone around as if she were the Queen; Lady Felicia seemed in blue spirits with Monty away--though they never seemed particularly affectionate when he was around; Sid was still in prison; and Flambeau was still harassing her with gifts, though they were intended more for Verity.

          It came as a welcome distraction when Lady Felicia offered to take Joan with her on a day trip to London. Mrs McCarthy gladly agreed to watch Verity for the day, not that she didn't watch Verity whenever Joan was working, and despite an immense amount of grumbling Inspector Mallory agreed to give her the day off.

          They travelled by train to the city, first class since her companion was a peer of the realm. As the train travelled down the tracks to their destination Joan's mind strayed to places she knew it should not.

          Memories of fingers pressing into her hips, skirt bunched just above them, assaulted her as the train passed a field with a couple laying together beneath a blanket on top of a car. Unbidden the feel of a steering wheel pressed into her back sent a shiver down her spine.

          Joan shook her head against the memories causing Lady Felicia to look up from the novel she was reading. "Is everything alright?" she asked, a single brow arched in concern.

          Joan forced a smile even as the whispered memory of lips on her throat lingered. "It's just this is the first time I've been away from Verity for more than just work."

          Lady Felicia smiled and closed her novel, "Things will be alright. Mrs McCarthy's a hawk when she's watching her. Trust me, this is just the thing you need."

          "I think the exact same thing. What's our first stop?" She asked drawing her companion's attention away from Joan's wavering attention.

          "Well," Lady Felicia began, eyes alighting with glee, "I was thinking a visit to the shops. Monty's been invited to some fancy dinner party and I just don't feel I have anything appropriate. You can get something exceptionally nice, my treat."

          "I don't need anything, but thank you all the same."

          "Nonsense, everything you've gotten in the past year has been to do with your daughter, as her godmother I insist on getting you something nice. A dress or something else. It doesn't have to be much, or even expensive, just find something you like and I'll get it for you." Lady Felicia smiled and patted Joan's knee.

          She was only able to smile absently at her friend as she turned her attention back to the window and the world flying by outside. Little villages with snow topped roofs, half dead fields, even a stream or two partially frozen passed before Joan's eyes but she saw none of it. Her mind was occupied with thoughts of a man walking her home from a dance hall and being too much a gentleman to slander a bullying colleague to her father, despite the fact that it painted him in a bad light.

          Joan smiled distantly as she realized it was in that moment--her shoes in her hand and his coat over her shoulders, the still rattling shock of seeing her father in such a rage before that flash of fear in his eyes--that she had begun to fall for Detective Constable Morse.

          _"Well there are coppers and there are coppers."_

          _"And what sort are you?"_

          _"I'm the kind that see young ladies safely home." He'd been serious, his face straight as he'd said it. Not even a hint of teasing. "Go on, I'll wait 'til you're inside" he'd finished, finally cracking a smile, but this one was kind. Brotherly. There was nothing brotherly about how she felt for him after that._

          "Everything all right? You've got that look again," Lady Felicia asked drawing Joan from her thoughts, "like you're somewhere else entirely."

          She smiled, looking down at her lap where her hands lay clasped together, the pawn shop ring she'd found to play at being her wedding ring catching the sunlight, "Just remembering some things. Morse." Lady Felicia's smile remained though it changed from curiosity to sympathetic sadness. "It's alright, it's just--it was around this time that I realized I was falling for him. It took a horrendous date with one of his colleagues and my father busting into the dance hall to yell at the gangster running the place for it to happen. Jakes was all hands and he couldn't dance, disappeared when my father showed up. Morse walked me home, let me borrow his jacket because of the cold and promised not to say anything."

          "You don't talk about him very much. You're husband." Lady Felicia said after a few moments of silence. "Monty and I have our issues, distance being the primary one, but I still don't know what I'd do were anything to happen to him. And here you are, just married--and I do mean _just_ \--and you're made a widow. Then to find yourself pregnant. I honestly can't imagine what it must be like."

          Despite the bleakness of the conversation Joan found herself smiling morosely. She also found herself momentarily struck with the urge to confess the truth about her relationship with Morse to Lady Felicia. She clamped that urge down, it was bad enough she'd confessed it all to Father Brown--and at least he'd placed her confession under a post-incident seal of confessional--and that Flambeau had worked out the truth; she couldn't have anyone else know. It could ruin her.

          So Joan, despite the circumstance smiled her sad, distant little smile. "I can't imagine it sometimes either. Verity is what keeps me going most days. She has his eyes, and not just the colour of them but that look of intelligence too. Like somehow she _knows_ , I don't know what; Morse always had that look. The wheels were always turning in that head of his. He would have made a fine Sergeant, an even better Inspector someday too I'd imagine."

          "Better than Mallory?" Lady Felicia asked teasingly.

          Joan laughed in reply, the bleak mood lifting with it, "Anyone would be a better inspector than Mallory."

 

          The laundry needed doing; the laundry needed doing but Joan had other things on her mind. Other things like the fact that Lady Felicia was departing for Northern Rhodesia today and her niece, Bunty, was staying. She had so much to do and it seemed as if there wasn't any time to do it since she wanted to see Lady Felicia off with the others.

          Of course because the laundry needed doing there was almost nothing for her to wear. And certainly nothing clean for Verity to be dressed in.

          And Verity was crying her lungs out again.

          Joan sighed, contemplated crying, thought better of it since it would do little good for the both of them to be in tears, and dropped the one of two cleans dresses she had onto the bed next to her one clean skirt, and two clean blouses. She raced down the stairs just as Verity stopped and when she rounded the corner to the main room she stopped in her tracks and just about threw a fit.

          After a moment she picked her jaw up off the floor, narrowed her eyes and demanded, "What in the world are you doing here?"

          The man holding her infant daughter turned and flashed her one of his charming grins that made her want to punch him. "And hello to you too darling sister."

          "I repeat, what are you doing here?" She asked him again, hands now holding tightly to her hips in an attempt to not march over take her daughter from this world renowned thief and throw him out on his ear.

          "Came to visit." Flambeau responded evenly as he bounced Verity up and down in the air.

          "Is that so?" She countered surprised at the simplicity of the answer. Flambeau shrugged as he held the giggling infant upside down for a few quick seconds. "You're lying. And surprisingly good with her."

          He laughed as he placed Verity in Joan's hands, "I have one of my own remember."

          "You missed her entire life, only living it in photographs. And you're avoiding the question." She said moving her daughter from one hip to the other but the infant kept squirming, trying it seemed to get back to her thief of a false uncle. They stood staring at each other in silence for several minutes before Joan sighed, "Fine, keep your secrets, but I have somewhere I need to be and chores to do."

          "Domesticity, there is a reason I avoided it."

          "Because it would give the police a place to find you?" She teased humorously though her voice was laced with venom.

          Again Flambeau shrugged. He fell into a chair somehow in a regal slouch, if such a thing even existed, and pulled out his cigarette case. He was just about to light one when Joan had to tell him that if he smoked in her home near her child she'd turn him into Inspector Mallory. Flambeau sent her a mock glare but put the cigarette away all the same.

          "So where is it you need to be?" He asked after tucking the case away in his jacket.

          "Train station, Lady F is leaving for Northern Rhodesia. Lord Montague's been made governor."

          "Shame, she had spark. I might actually miss her."

          "She hates you for playing her. Something about a painting and an American accent."

          Flambeau smiled in fond remembrance and Joan rolled her eyes as she returned Verity--who had finally calmed down--to her crib. "All the same, perhaps I should send you with a bon voyage gift for her."

          " _I_ would kill you."

          "No you wouldn't, you're a copper's daughter."

          She crossed her arms over her chest and humphed in defiant defeat. "Look, why are you here? I have to figure out what to wear when I don't have any clothes. I have a ton of chores to do, laundry being the foremost, _and_ I have work."

          "Needed a place to hide out for a couple of days. You don't mind, do you? _Darling sister_."

          "Ask Father Brown. Sanctuary is a church thing, and I'm sure he'd love to try and save your soul again. In my opinion it would simply be a waste of everyone's time."

          "I thought priests were supposed to listen to people."

          "What does that mean?"

          "I _have_ told him it's a waste of his time. And mine." Flambeau replied rising from the table and heading for the cupboards. "As for being busy, I got your groceries for you. Thought you might appreciate the gesture, especially since I'll be staying for the next couple of days."

          "You are _not_ staying, but I'm grateful for the food. Now get out." She informed him before heading for the stairs to change and leave for the station. Bunty had offered to come by and drive her, and Joan didn't want to make her wait. "Or better yet, stay, do the laundry, and then leave by the time I get back" she tossed over her shoulder before fully leaving the first floor.

          When Joan came back down to get Verity in an outfit that didn't look too soiled she found her kitchen empty and a note on the table. She scowled at the familiar greeting on the outside of the page and elected to save the contents for later, especially as there was a knock just then at the door.

          Bunty let herself in seconds later calling out a hello before pausing in the entry between the main room and the kitchen where Joan was dressing Verity. "Golly, am I glad I don't have one of those."

          Joan laughed, "There are some days I wish the same thing, but then I remember where I'd be without her."

          "Yes but think about all the fun and the parties you're missing because you have to stay home and take care of her. We're what, same age, aren't we? I can't imagine life if I was stuck around playing mummy." Bunty moaned in her glamorous way as she folded herself into a kitchen chair. "Oh, what's this?"

          Joan grimaced as Bunty picked up the letter Flambeau left, "Just something my near-do-well brother left me."

          "Brother? Is he handsome?" Bunty asked eyes alight and leaning on her elbows over the table.

          "He's a thorn in the side and my brother whether I like it or not." She responded as she finished getting Verity's fist through her sleeve, meaning the infant was now dressed, "Shall we be off?"

          "Aren't you curious what he said?"

          "Not in the slightest."

          "Can I read it?"

          Joan rolled her eyes and wondered if she was ever this trying with her parents. And how terrible was that thought? Bunty was right after all, they were just about the same age and here she was sounding like her mother.

          "Why don't we head out for a night sometime Bunty? I'm sure Mrs McCarthy would love to watch Verity, and it might do me some good getting away for an evening." And that trip Lady Felicia had taken her on to London had done her some good.

          "I see what you're trying to do. You're trying to distract me from this letter. Is there something scandalous in it?" She inquired even as she dropped the paper back to the table and collected her handbag, "But it is working. How about tomorrow evening?"

          She smiled as she placed Verity in her pram, "Sounds lovely."

 

          Joan woke with a sore head, a sore neck, one leg having gone numb, and a shrill scream from somewhere far away and also very close.

          It was as she sat up, not in her bed but on her sofa, that she swore to herself she was never going to the pub again with Bunty. Or if she did she was never going to let the other woman talk her into a three way drinking contest between the two of them and the owner's son. She did have to smile at the memory of her actually winning that contest, not that she knew how she managed it.

          She swung her legs off the sofa and to the floor, the feeling of pins and needles shooting through the leg that had fallen asleep. It took her a few attempts before she was on her feet and stumbling towards the stairs. Eventually she reached them and even more impressively made her way up them. She followed the increasing pain in her head towards Verity's little room and half blind against the pain and sunshine, picked the crying infant up.

          She bounced her daughter around and eventually she stopped crying. Unfortunately in that time Joan had started. Returning her daughter to her crib, she collapsed into the rocking chair that had mysteriously appeared in the nursery a month after Verity's birth--a note bearing Flambeau's familiar scrawl and greeting tacked to it--to replace the kitchen chair she had been using up to that point. She buried her head in her hands and full on cried. Shoulder racking sobs, noise that drew a baby's curious and confused gaze, and had her losing her voice.

          She looked up from her hands as the sobs began to die and turned to her daughter to ask, "What is wrong with me? Why am I forcing myself to live a lie? Why can't I just go back? Tell them what happened. Tell Morse," she choked on her question unable to even give it voice, "It's all my fault you know. If I hadn't been drawn in by Paul, Ronnie would be alive. Those men wouldn't have robbed the bank. None of this would have happened.

          "Ronnie died because of me. I am dangerous. That's why I had to leave. I can't imagine the looks mum and dad would have given me when they realized that. Morse," she stopped at his name, one hand moving to cover her heart the other the womb that had grown his child, "he'd hate me."

          She turned to look at his daughter, Verity really did have his eyes and right now they were watching her--interested and not at all judgement, it was almost like she was analyzing what Joan was saying. "You're father almost died because of me too. He kept me safe through it all when really he should have let those men kill me. If he hadn't been worried about me he might have been able to stop them."

          She swiped away some tears just as there was a knock at the door. She smiled trying to banish her bleak mood from her mind and appearance as she quickly tried to wipe the rest of her tears away. Standing she headed for the nursery door and turned back to Verity, "Probably just Father Brown coming to check how I am after last night. Want to come too, show him mummy's fine?"

          Verity gave her little giggle and she smiled back, heading back to the crib and picking her up. Together they headed downstairs and opened the door.

          Whoever had knocked had turned as if they were about to leave but as the door opened and she automatically offered a "hello" they turned back around.

          Her entire world dissolved into a tiny pinprick of a tunnel as she stared dumbfounded at her guest.

          "Miss Thursday."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, back to the timeline (if anyone other me needing it written down cares), Sid was arrested in December, which was also when Joan went back to work and gave Sid the letter to post to Oxford. Lady Felicia leaves mid/late-January, in which case Bunty also arrives then. I know Lady Felicia's departure doesn't line up with the weather climate from the show, but oh well, liberties and fiction and all that.


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay, I wanted to get more things planned and written before I posted this and then I just kept forgetting to post it. Either way, I'm sorry. Enjoy.

# Chapter Three

          It had been another long day, he could feel it deep in his bones but he knew he wouldn't sleep. His eyes burnt and itched each time they closed and everything screamed for him to sleep but he knew from experience that he wouldn't. He hadn't been properly tired in a long time, that tired that meant he'd be able to lay down, close his eyes, and drift off. What he was, was tired in the sense that the moment he started preparing for sleep he'd be energized again. As a result, Morse hadn't slept in a long time.

          He'd get home to his empty little flat, pour himself a drink of something strong, sit in his one real chair, and stare at _her_ photo. He'd undoubtedly pass out from exhaustion at some point through the night and wake up to the ringing of his phone, his glass miraculously still half full and in his hand.

          A ringing phone and a stream of early morning light was how he greeted each day, and today was no different. Except that it was.

          Morse woke to the sound of his phone ringing and light in his eyes but his glass was not in hand. Instead it was on the table next to him and _her_ photo had fallen in his lap. He scrubbed his face quickly in an effort to stave off the previous day's exhaustion and rose to answer the phone.

          "Morse," he greeted tersely looking around the barren expanse of his home wondering if he should change his tie or his shirt today. His trousers had been changed the day before and since there weren't any sort of stains of them they could go another day or two.

          He listened to the constable rattle off what little information they had on the body that had been found in back of one of the pubs as he searched for his notebook to write down the address.

          "Can you hold on just a moment," he asked the constable, unable to find the notebook just yet. It had probably slipped out of his pocket and between the back of the chair and the seat cushion again. Instead he picked up his glass, swallowed the contents in one quick gulp--it was another part of his morning routine, to finish the drink he had fallen asleep with--and took up the paper, open to the crossword he had finished last week.

          "Can you repeat the address for me." He instructed pencil in hand, poised over the paper. He listened to the constable, his hand copying every word said.

          He was just putting his pencil down after thanking the man when he noticed the puzzle on the page. Or more specifically the answers to the puzzle on the page. The constable was still talking, Morse wasn't sure what about or why as he returned the receiver to its cradle, his eyes trained on the wet stain left by his glass that encompassed several of the words.

          'MORSE' 'FATHER' 'TRUTH' 'DAUGHTER'

          There were other words of course, and those specific words likely meant nothing but there was something about the way they had been lined up. Or perhaps his lack of proper sleep was starting to affect him and he was seeing things that didn't exist. He picked up the paper and examined the clues that had led to those responses.

          'Code using dots and dashes' 'Title for a Catholic priest' 'Meaning of the Latin Verity' 'Female child'

          In all they were very inane, and looking over the rest of the clues he remembered having been unsatisfied in the ease with which the puzzle was solved. An amateur could have solved it, had probably even drawn it up. But still there was something about it that drew him. His next step was the check the name of the submitter. Joan, no last name. On a whim, Morse flipped the paper to the front page and checked the date. Thursday.

          In a daze he collapsed into the chair, staring at the puzzle in shock.

 

           It wouldn't be for another day before he had the chance to speak with Ms Frazil at the Oxford Mail. In theory, and perhaps reality, he was there to speak with her about their latest case--the victim was rumoured to be a relationship with a reporter at the Mail and Morse needed to speak with the man--in truth that puzzle was forefront of his mind as he ascended the steps to the offices.

          "Morse," Ms Frazil greeted warmly as he stepped into the office, brushing snow from his shoulders, "what can we do for you?"

          "I need to speak with a Mr-" Morse paused to pull out his notebook and double check the name, "-Watt."

          "Nothing serious I hope," she commented as she pointed him to a desk with her cigarette. He kept quiet on the subject to her, knowing Watt would likely be interrogated by his editor once he'd finished his questioning. That or Ms Frazil would listen in while he was conducting his interview, which she did offering him an alibi.

          Finished he turned to leave, thinking it best to save his personal matter for another time. But really, there was no time like the present. "Ms Frazil," he began turning back to her, "I have a question for you regarding a puzzle you ran in the Mail two Thursdays ago."

          "Oh, is the killer luring his victims through crossword puzzles again?"

          He smiled and shook his head, "No, it's unrelated to this case as far as I can tell. Do you know who sent it in?"

          "I'll have to check the records but the author should be printed beneath of the puzzle itself."

          "All that was given was the name 'Joan.'" He responded curtly, enunciating the name in case it triggered a memory with Ms Frazil.

          She frowned over the papers on her desk that she was searching through. "It's not uncommon for some submitters to wish to keep some level of anonymity. But I think I remember the crossword you're after. It came in by mail with a note asking that it very specifically be printed on a Thursday. I should have it here somewhere." She placed the cigarette in her mouth to free up both hands and began a far more earnest search. After a few minutes she looked up quickly, and around the cigarette said, "Believe it or not I do have a filing system despite this mess. These might all seem like unorganized piles of paper but they _are_ actually organized."

          Morse smiled tightly and waited as she kept searching. Finally she looked up with a triumphant smile and handed him an envelope. He carefully opened the letter he pulled from inside and immediately recognized Miss Thursday's handwriting. He hadn't seen it often, but like everything else about her, it was seared into his memory--filed away in the box labeled 'Joan Thursday.'

          "Where did you send the payment check?" He asked barely having started to read the letter.

          "Didn't," Ms Frazil answered taking her seat behind her desk, "as you'll see the letter specifically said to donate the payment to the local orphanage and we did just that. Held it in for a few days first in case this woman changed her mind, but-" she trailed off with a shrug.

          "This was posted back in December, what took so long for it to be printed?"

          "It was likely just sitting in the pile of submissions and was printed when we reached it. I'm afraid that sort of thing does happen."

          "The post mark shows that it came from Cheltenham in Gloucestershire, do you normally take submissions for outside Oxford?"

          Ms Frazil's brow furrowed as she held out a hand for the envelope, "We don't, I'm surprised nobody noticed this." She looked up as she handed back the envelope, "We pride ourselves in being as Oxford as possible. I'm sorry about that."

          "No, don't apologize," he assured her quickly. "Do you mind if I keep these?"

          Ms Frazil shrugged, "I don't see why not. Can I ask what this is about?"

          Morse smiled trying for politeness when all he wanted was to now be away for the place, "It's nothing of great importance. More a personal matter."

          "Well, if there's anything else I can help you with let me know." He smiled again and nodded goodbye to Ms Frazil as he departed.

 

          It would be another week before he found enough of a break in his duties to properly pursue this seemingly coded message from Miss Thursday.

          That didn't mean he didn't work on it in the intermittent period. He analyzed every clue and answer in the puzzle, trying to figure out just what Miss Thursday was attempting to say. Each of the possibilities made little sense. Why couldn't she have called? Was she in some kind of trouble and this was her only way of communicating?

          In a fit of frustration Morse pitched his notebook across his flat and buried his head in his hands. There was only one real way to figure this out and that was to find Miss Thursday. He couldn't just wander into Cheltenham with her photo, it would be too suspicious. Perhaps if he had a police sketch of her drawn up it wouldn't seem as pathetic. He had the next couple days off, barring any bodies turning up, and resolved to make the journey to Cheltenham to try and find her.

          He finished the drink he had just poured and collected his notebook before heading out the door for the station. When he arrived he slipped in as innocuously as possible and picked up the book to quickly draw up a suspect image. He flipped through the various facial options until he had the best possible replication of Miss Thursday's face before him. He had the image quickly replicated for him to canvas with and left the station.

          He returned to his flat and poured another drink. Taking his seat he pulled out the actual photo of Miss Thursday--something he'd surreptitiously stolen from the Thursday home shortly after her departure--and just looked at it.

          _"Love I suppose, don't know until you meet the right one" she'd said, almost wistfully at the time._

          Tipping his head back, he closed his eyes. He expected to be assaulted with her image as he always was, and it did happen, but this time he also _felt_ her. He felt her soft skin give beneath his roving hands. He felt her hair brush against his face. He felt her lips on his. He felt her in his lap. And heaven help him, he could even feel her around him, pulsing.

          Feverish, Morse opened his eyes and pitched his glass across the room. He collapsed defeated back into the chair and groaned as he blinked his eyes shut and _she_ appeared again; but he would not degrade her by acting on his baser urges. He could not, so he suffered through a long sleepless night.

 

          He pulled the car up to the post office; it seemed a better place to start since everyone passed through there and this wasn't something pressing that the police need be informed of. He entered the building cautiously, doubting that what he was doing needed to be done.

          He approached the front counter and pulled out the composite of Miss Thursday, "Hello, have you seen this woman?"

          The man behind the counter considered the image and frowned shaking his head, "Don't look familiar. What's this about?"

          Morse hesitated for a second trying to think of a quick answer, "We believe she was witness to a crime in Oxford and might now be in danger. Are you sure you haven't seen her?"

          "Sorry sir," the man said as he turned to serve another customer.

          Morse waited for him to finish with the queue before he asked, "this letter was posted from here, was it not?"

          The man took the envelope Morse held out and looked it over the same way he had the image of Miss Thursday, "Looks that way."

          "Do you remember who posted it?"

          The man shook his head again, "Sorry, we get a lot of letters coming through here."

          "We believe it was posted on a Monday back in December. The woman from the photograph is believed to have posted it." The man shook his head again apologizing.

          Morse sighed and nodded, tucking both the composite and the envelope back into his pocket. Stepping out of the post office and approaching the jaguar, he stopped hand on the doorknob and turned suddenly.

          Pulling the composite from his pocket he approached the butcher shop across the street and began asking people if they'd seen Miss Thursday.

          Three hours of questioning later and Morse was no closer to locating her. Stepping into a pub for a drink and a chance to get off his feet and think he took a table and pulled out the crossword he had also brought with him. Pouring over the clues and the answers he tried to see if there was anything else that might dictate where Miss Thursday might be.

          He'd just come to the conclusion that she'd come to Cheltenham only to post the puzzle and that she lived elsewhere when someone appeared at his elbow. Morse looked up at the boy who was nervously clenching his wool cap, "Is there something you need?"

          "You've been asking about a girl, is that right?"

          Morse sat up straighter and pulled the composite out of his pocket again, holding it out to the boy, "Have you seen her?"

          "No, but around the time you're asking a strange man came into the village, posted a letter, and then took off again."

          "Can you provide a description?" He asked pulling his notebook out.

          "Didn't get a good look at him, but I did the car, it was a fancy red one. Rolls Royce I think, but I don't know much about cars. It certainly stood out though, all posh and that."

          "How can you be sure if it was a man?"

          "Saw his arm, chauffer's uniform cuff. Never heard of a woman chauffer, have you?"

          Morse nodded in agreement, "Do you know where this car might have come from?" The boy shook his head and left.

          Morse dropped head into his hands and turned back to the crossword puzzle and the composite image of Miss Thursday. 'Area defined by bedrock of Jurassic limestone' was the only location clue in the puzzle 'COTSWOLDS' being the very broad reaching answer. How was he supposed to search the entire of the Cotswolds for her?

          Searching through the rest of the clues and answers he went over it all again, trying to see if there was anything in them that might give him a hint as to her location. Nothing jumped out at him expect for one clue, perhaps it's because it was the first he'd filled in when he'd been doing the puzzle.

          'Least favourite colour; associated with poverty' 'BROWN'

          He stared at the puzzle until his eyes felt like they might start to bleed, but still nothing came to him; until a group of people came into the pub talking loudly amongst themselves, "Father Carmichael believes that a bake sale would take too long to raise the funds for the wall repair."

          Hearing that caused something to click in Morse's mind. The placement of some of the answers. 'FATHER' and 'BROWN' were placed like they might almost be connected. Like they were someone's name.

          Morse gathered all his things up and was out of the pub before a full minute had passed since his revelation. He headed straight for the local newspaper office. They might be able to tell him where he could find a Father Brown, or at least give him a list of Catholic churches--hopefully it was nearby and not further away.

 

          He parked the car outside the church in Kembleford and watched. He wasn't sure what he was looking for, but he'd found Father Brown and if he was Morse's best lead in finding Miss Thursday then he had to pursue it. He just wished he knew what his next step would be. Should he approach this crime solving priest, asking if he'd seen Miss Thursday? Or was he a friend of Miss Thursday's and speaking to him would lead to her disappearing before he found her.

          He was never this uncertain when investigating normally.

          He watched the church for a full hour before things grew too dark. Sighing he started the car and pulled away. He drove out of Kembleford, not wanting to risk her finding out he was there, if in fact she was in Kembleford.

          The next morning he headed back to Kembleford, bright and early. He parked in front of the church again and beyond an old woman heading up the walk to the presbytery there wasn't anything of interest.

          He pulled away and headed for the village post office. He still didn't want to alert the police to anything--this was a personal matter not a police one--and he could always make the same assertions he had in Cheltenham.

          "Excuse me," he began showing his badge, "have you seen this woman? We believe she might be the witness to a crime and now a target."

          "That's Mrs Morse, Joan. Can't believe she'd be in some kind of trouble, but then with her helping out the Father I guess it's possible." The woman behind him said.

          He turned to her, showing her the composite, "Are you sure?"

          "Of course, Joan Morse, everyone knows the poor girl. Poor, poor girl. Does this have something to do with that bank robbery that her husband died in?"

          Morse stared at the woman trying to process everything she was saying. Joan wasn't married. And why had she told them her last name was Morse? "Do you know where I might find her?"

          "Works down at the police station, keeping it clean, on most days. If she isn't there she'll probably be at home." The elderly woman replied.

          Pulling out his notebook, pencil poised, Morse asked the important question, "Do you have an address?"

 

          He walked up the simple little walkway of Miss Thursday's home. He'd made walks like this hundreds of times, if not thousands, and yet this time he was nervous. Was it because of who's home he was approaching? It couldn't be, he'd never felt like this when she lived with her parents. Of course at the time he hadn't been aware of his feelings for her.

          He approached the door and stared at it for a full minute before finally knocking. The house seemed silent and there was no reply. He'd just turned to leave when he heard the latch on the door give and the slight creak of it opening.

          "Hello" she greeted. It was an off handed thing, something you say before you've even finished opening the door.

          He turned back and there she was. Her black hair was a mess and her dress was rumpled, like she'd slept in it--he knew the look. The most startling thing though was the infant on her hip. It threw him, had him wondering if she'd moved on, if she actually wanted him here. Then he blinked and realized she was likely just watching it for someone else.

          "Miss Thursday" he greeted her calmly, in too much wonder at finally seeing her again for there to be any sort of inflection behind the greeting.


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay in posting, I still haven't finished writing the story but I feel as if where I am at the moment--which is a little further on than where we are--might be nearing the end. No promises and all I can ask is that you bear with me as I keep trying to plod through.

# Chapter Four

          Joan could do little beyond stare as she felt the confusing feeling of being home and as if the world was collapsing around her. How did this man, this man she loved with all her heart even after a year apart had passed, manage to cause her to feel this way?

          Verity gurgled on her hip before yawning and sticking her fist in her mouth. The infant's actions seemed to wake her from whatever trance Morse's appearance had thrown her in. "Morse," she said evenly, "would you like to come in?"

          He nodded and followed after her as she stepped into the house, him closing the door. She stopped in the middle of the room and just looked back at him. He had much the same reaction, just watching her.

          They stayed that way for some time, Verity slowly falling asleep in her arms--almost to the point of being heavy. Finally Morse broke the silence, "I received your message. Clever."

          She laughed, carefully hoisting her--their--daughter further up her hip. "I knew you would appreciate it." On her hip Verity began to fuss and pull at her dress, trying to get at Joan's breast behind it, "I'm sorry, she needs her feeding. I'm trying to wean her off, but it's still early days."

          She turned towards the stairs for the second floor and began up them before realizing what she had just said. Even though Morse was the father that was still too much information to have given.

          She was half way through the feeding when she felt eyes on her. Joan turned her head and found Morse hovering in the doorway, his face unreadable. She quirked an eyebrow at him, "You _can_ come in you know. She's a bit busy to bite, though she'll try now that she's teething." Morse took a step forward but came no further into the room. She sighed, "Can you please," she said motioning with her head for him to move closer and in front of her, "I'll get a crick in my neck if you stay there."

          Morse moved, slowly, around the room and once he was in front of her resolutely looked everywhere but at her. It stung slightly, not having the father of her child, the man she loved with all her heart, look at her.

          "How old is your daughter?" he asked after several minutes of nothing but the faint sounds of Verity feeding.

          "Nearly a year."

          "A year" he echoed. Morse sounded ... not like himself, Joan noted; he almost sounded lost.

          "Nearly a year," she confirmed, "she was born in March."

          "March."

          "Nine months after I left."

          Morse's head turned towards her so suddenly Joan was afraid he might hurt himself, "She's-?"

          "You know as well as I do Morse, you're the only man I've ever been with" she reminded him. He'd been almost horrified when he'd noticed the blood on her thighs, only first seeing where it had transferred on to him.

          "Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you come back?"

          She sighed, looking down at their daughter, about to fall asleep at her breast while still feeding, "I can't."

          "Why not" it didn't sound like a question, but how else could the statement have been meant?

          Without meaning her eyes pricked with more tears. Had she not cried enough just an hour ago? "There are too many reasons. Or maybe there's just one. I don't know."

          Something seemed to pass over Morse's face at her response, then he stated bluntly, "You're wrong. Nobody hates you or blames you, you're parents are worried about you. I was worried about you. Miss Thursday-"

          "Joan," she said cutting him off, "after what we've done, what we've created, I really think it should be Joan."

          Morse offered a half smile and continued what he had previously been saying, "-all anyone wants is to know you're safe. That you're alright. Alive even. Anything else, it's been forgotten."

          "Not by me" she informed him morosely. "Besides, what would my dad say about Verity? I don't think there is ever going to be enough respect or anything for him to not try and kill you."

          He had a laugh at that. They both descended into silence for a few minutes before Morse asked, "What's her name?"

          She smiled absently, "Verity. I told you in the message, just like I said you were a father. I thought you said you got the message."

          "I got it but it didn't make much sense. You need to work on your crossword skills" he quipped, "What else was in there? Out of curiosity."

          "How to find me, if you wanted to. I see you figured that out."

          "It wasn't easy. I was able to figure it was somewhere in the Cotswolds. I asked around Cheltenham but they didn't know anything, I figured you just posted it from there."

          "Cheltenham?" she asked surprised, "Sid sure did his due diligence when he went outside Kembleford to post it. So how did you find me? Just go around to every village and ask?"

          He smiled, "No, I figured out the Father Brown clue."

          "Not many Catholic priests can make an impression like Father Brown" Joan stated fondly. "You didn't go by the station to find me, did you?"

          "No, I asked at the post office. I have to ask-"

          "I told people we'd just been married. I was finishing my last shift at the bank before we left for the honeymoon when it was robbed and you were killed" she told him, guessing what it was he was going to ask. From the look on his face--almost unreadable as always, but she knew him enough to be able to read it--she'd figured his question correctly. "I didn't want people judging me for being an unmarried woman with a child on the way. Father Brown found me a few days after I learned I was pregnant and offered to help. I wanted to tell you but I was afraid; or maybe I was just weak."

          "I have never, for one moment, ever known you to be weak. I am a little insulted that you killed me though," she laughed at his attempt at condescension and humour, "it will certainly make my being here difficult to explain."

          She looked back up at him quickly, having checked on Verity and determined she was now fast asleep and could carefully be moved from Joan's breast to her crib, "You're staying?"

          Morse's brow furrowed at her question and as he seemed to contemplate the answer, "I would like to."

          She smiled at a loss for what to make of it all, "I would like that too."

 

          A week had passed since Morse's sudden arrival back into her life and Joan was both happy and stressed by the fact. She was happy because Morse had come back for her, and their child; he was a surprisingly dotting father--surprising because with his mind and drive for work he seemed the kind to pass things such as family by. The stress was perhaps obvious as they'd had to find a way to explain her dead husband's sudden appearance.

          Neither of them had even spoken of what would happen when his months leave from work was over--and Joan didn't know what he'd said to get a month's leave from Superintendent Bright. She'd certainly wondered over what would happen, but she didn't know how to ask. She couldn't see herself returning to Oxford, but then she couldn't see how she'd manage to stay away from Morse now that he was back in her life and her heart.

          That lack of discussion on the future had at first made coming up with an explanation for Morse's being alive difficult, though like the matter itself, it was never brought up. It was Father Brown that eventually offered a solution to Morse's presence; Joan had lied, yes, about Morse being dead because her grief over his being shot in the line of duty was too much for her. She didn't know how to handle having a husband that took risks like he did and had run.

          As a good portion of that was true and the reason behind her leaving Oxford, that was the story they went with. Mrs McCarthy was the first told of Morse's appearance, and she was all sympathy, even relaying the story of her wayward husband. Bunty walked in halfway through the explanation and declared Morse a proper looker. Unfortunately Bunty then asked if Morse looking for her was what Joan's brother had written to her about.

          Morse gave her a look, "Sam knew where you were?"

          Joan smiled tightly, wishing she were the one holding Verity and not Morse in this instant, "No, Henry. I can't remember if you ever met him. He wasn't able to make it to mum and dad's 25th a few years back, so if you had it wouldn't have been there."

          Mrs McCarthy and Father Brown shared a look as Joan quite possibly dug herself a hole too deep to get out of. Bunty frowned, "Sorry for bringing it up."

          "I can't say I've ever heard about another brother" Morse said, something strange in his voice.

          Joan's tight smile remained as she found herself trying to think of something else to say and greatly wishing Flambeau were here so that she could bash him over the head for getting her into this position--the fact that it was her that had given him the cover of being siblings irrelevant. "He's a scoundrel, not someone mum or dad would willingly discuss. In fact I think dad would very much like to arrest him sometimes, so he tends to stay away from Oxford."

          Morse didn't seem convinced but nodded as if he understood and accepted her story. Bunty simply grinned wide and demanded to know more.

          "I really don't see the point in discussing that man" Mrs McCarthy said clearly frustrated in that way only Flambeau or Lady Felicia acting like a wonton flirt could illicit. "Now, Mr Morse, why don't you try one of my _award winning_ strawberry scones."

          It was after they'd left the presbytery and returned home to Joan's cottage--for appearances Morse had to stay with her, they were supposedly married after all--that the subject of the nonexistent brother returned. Of course the note pinned to the cabinet next to the fridge with Flambeau's familiar greeting didn't help.

          "Why don't you sit down, Morse. This is a conversation better had if everyone was sitting down."

          Morse gave her a curious look but sat all the same, the letter still in his hand. Joan took it from him, grateful it hadn't been read yet--Flambeau was probably bragging about something he stole again, he had nothing to congratulate her on this time. Or perhaps he was writing to say he'd just been arrested and would never bother her again. Joan hoped it was the latter.

          "I don't really have an older brother named Henry" she began simply. "What happened was that someone who rather likes playing games on Father Brown had come to visit, and he's not exactly on the up and up; well when Inspector Mallory saw me speaking with him one day I sort of panicked and said he was my brother. I don't know why, I'd only met him the day before, anyway he's sort of taken to teasing me about the rouse."

          Morse took it all in rather calmly before asking, "Is his name really Henry?"

          Joan bit her lip and shook her head slowly, "At least I don't think it is. It's not the name I know him by but whether even that name is real I can't say."

          "And what do you know him as?"

          Joan winced, "I really think it better you don't know. Please Morse, he's likely not going to be bothering us beyond breaking in and leaving these silly little notes, there's nothing to worry about."

          "He breaks in?"

          "I told you, he's not exactly on the correct side of the law."

          "So you're helping to hide a criminal."

          "Flambeau is far more than just a criminal." Joan informed him with a hint of a laugh wondering what Flambeau would have to say hearing that. She then blanched as she realized what she'd said at seeing Morse's face--it was a strange mix of anger, shock, and complete calm, it was rather terrifying frankly.

          "Flambeau" he stated, though perhaps it was more a question than a simple repetition of the name, "Flambeau?" that was definitely more a query, "you are helping to hide Flambeau."

          It was amazing he'd finished sounding calm, but despite that Joan could only sigh nervously as she considered her next best move. "Not exactly," she went with, "I have no idea where he is. Honestly, neither does Father Brown; and really Father Brown is the one more likely to know. Flambeau sees Father Brown as his, I don't know, equal or something. He likes going up against Father Brown, that's for certain. And other than that time with Inspector Mallory I've never hidden him from anyone, and I don't even know why I had that time. Although perhaps I do; his daughter was being held by a former associate of his and if he didn't steal the coronation cross then she'd be killed. He went to Father Brown for help, and they managed to save her, and the cross _was_ returned. And if it's any consolation, Flambeau _was_ shot in the exchange."

          Morse just looked at her, making Joan more and more nervous.

          "I'm right with Mrs McCarthy and Sid and Lady Felicia, he needs to be turned over to the police for his crimes, but Father Brown insists that his soul can be saved. And by the time the chaos has begun to calm, he's always disappeared again. Usually leaving a taunting note behind for the Father too."

          "But you helped him."

          " _Once_!" she cried exasperated, "and only because it was his daughter's life at stake and I was a hormonal mother-to-be. Believe me, if I'd known the trouble saying he was my brother would bring I would have let him fend for himself."

          Morse sighed and turned away. When he turned back something about his posture said he planned to drop the topic, Joan figured it was just for the time being--the cop in him would not allow the fact to be forgotten--"What does he say?"

          "What?" she asked confused by the sudden and inexplicable change of subject.

          "The note, what does he have to say?"

          "Oh," she said as she looked down at the sheet of paper in her hands. It had gotten crumbled during their ... argument? discussion? With an eye roll and shaky fingers she unfolded the page and read. With a scoff and a shake of her head she finished and looked up, "He says to pass on his congratulations to you, on fatherhood. He also says welcome to the family" she handed the paper to Morse so he could see for himself, "cheeky bastard."

          "He's brazen. I'm surprised he hasn't been caught already" Morse commented placing the paper on the table.

          Joan rolled her eyes, "He's also very good and a master of disguise. And he truly is a thief, he works his way into places he had no right being" like her affections. Despite his being a scoundrel and thief rightly deserving of a prison cell, she'd grown rather fond of his annoying little letters and gifts. "Can we forget about Flambeau for a while?"   

          Morse smiled and nodded, "Of course."

 

          They were just preparing for bed--Morse sleeping on the sofa, ever a gentleman--when a sharp, shrill scream breached the night air. Joan was down the stairs and towards the door, hand about to pull it open when Verity woke and began screaming and Morse pulled her away, placing his jacket over her shoulders. He told her to stay there as he went out into the street to see what was happening. Joan obeyed for about a minute before following him out.

          "What's happening?" she asked as she spied Bunty's motor car parked a few houses away.

          Morse turned around at her question, "Get back inside."

          Joan gave him a level stare then finally shook her head. She'd just taken a step forward to try and get around him when she saw Father Brown crouched over something, Bunty leaning over his shoulder. "Another one?!" she exclaimed amazed.

          "Oh, does this sort of thing happen often then?" Bunty asked turning to greet her with a smile.

          "More than you'd think" she responded to the wayward heiress. "Mallory's going to be livid, Father."

          Father Brown looked up from the body--what a shame, Mr Henderson was a very good butcher--"I am simply doing my duty to the dead, Joan."

          "Of course," she agreed with a knowing smile, "find anything yet?"

          "A suspicious lack of blood for someone who has so obviously been stabbed." Father Brown stated calmly pushing up from his knees to his feet.

          "Are there any signs he's been dragged here, or been thrown from a vehicle?" she asked coming even closer, Morse's hand falling away from where he'd been holding her elbow to take a closer look himself no doubt.

          At just that moment a sharp whistle broke through the night air and Mallory could be heard barking, "Let me through. Police, let me through!" Mallory broke through the crowd and sighed, "Padre; just once I'd like there to be a body where you're not around. Goodfellow, secure the area, I don't want anyone else disturbing the scene."

          Goodfellow muttered "Right away, Sir" and went about pushing Joan's neighbours back, telling them to get back to their homes and beds. Mallory continued to glare at Father Brown while Morse went unnoticed in his silent examination of the area, in particular the houses.

          Morse rose from his crouch, observed the staring contest between the Inspector and Father, and stated, "The people living in these houses are going to have to be interviewed, in case they heard or saw anything. You're coroner will also have to confirm it, but this man was definitely killed somewhere else and then dropped here. The question is why? Why here?"

          It truly was amazing to see Morse work, she thought even as Mallory turned on him and demanded to know who he was and what he was doing at his crime scene.

          "Detective Constable Morse, Oxford CID" Morse replied calmly, even pulling his identification from the pocket of his trousers, "I'm just visiting Kembleford, but if you need any assistance ..."

          " _I_ know who you are!" Mallory barked angrily, cutting him off. Her boss turned to her sharply now, that glare still present, "And you, Mrs Morse, I'll be having a very _long_ chat with you when you get in tomorrow."

          "Yes Sir" she responded demurely, head down.

          "I believe a good place to start might be Mr Henderson's shop" Father Brown stated offhandedly.

          Mallory turned away from her, his glare again focused on the Father, "I'll take that under advisement, Padre. I don't know what I'd do without you telling me how to do my job. Now all of you, _get away from my crime scene_!"

          The few onlookers that had remained despite Goodfellow's commanders, hastily turned back to their homes. Father Brown nodded and turned to Bunty, suggesting they head off. Morse came forward, and with his hand again at her elbow, began directing her back to her home.

          "Not you though, _Constable_ Morse. You're police after all, might as well put you to use, though we'll be having a chat of our own first." Mallory called after them.

          Joan shared a look with Morse, he nodded and she smiled returning the nod. The silent conversation clear--she was alright and she'd head straight home and stay there until morning or he returned, whichever came first. Morse released her and she gave him a quick kiss on the cheek before returning home to their daughter, who was still crying; she should have looked in on Verity instead of running into the streets in nothing but her nightdress and Morse's jacket.


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't sleep so I finally (FINALLY!!!!) present the next chapter. Oh, and I know how and when the story ends (unless an epilogue suddenly manifests. It's left at a place where an epilogue or simply more chapters could appear; for now, there are seven chapters).

# Chapter Five

          Morning came before Morse's return, but Joan wasn't too surprised; her father had always spoken about how Morse got too involved with cases. She woke to the sun in her face and a sore neck from trying to wait up for Morse. She went upstairs and went about her morning routine of getting Verity and herself dressed and fed.

          She was heading out the door to leave Verity with Mrs McCarthy when Morse came through the entrance. He seemed surprised to see them and she had to wonder if he even knew what time it was. Shaking her head, she directed him into a kitchen chair and went about making a quick bowl of porridge for him to eat, along with a cup of tea.

          "Have you found anything?" she inquired after threatening to fed him as if he were an infant.

          Morse regarded her over his spoon, "Doesn't work stay at the hat rack?"

          She smiled knowingly, "In case you haven't noticed, _I_ don't have one; besides that was my dad's rule."

          "Inspector Mallory informed me that you can sometimes be found helping Father Brown with his investigations."

          She sighed and hung her head, "What else did Mallory tell you?"

          "Miss Thursday-"

          "Joan" she corrected, "we're supposed to be married, remember. I don't think men are in the habit of referring to their wives by their maiden names."

          Morse gave her a critical look and she raised a brow in response. She then rather pointedly looked at the spoon hovering in the air, porridge about to fall off onto Morse's lap. He actually rolled his eyes before putting the spoon in his mouth.

          "Well out with it," she eventually had to say rather sternly, "you know Goodfellow can be accommodating in regards to offering Father Brown assistance from time to time."

          With a sigh Morse told her what little he'd managed to find. Really it wasn't much since he'd taken it upon himself to work through the night when the coroner was passed out drunk in his bed--or was in a pub getting drunk--and all the people he intended to question were fast asleep. He had searched through Mr Henderson's home and shop. Unfortunately listening to Morse talk about his search of the butcher shop left her hungry, despite having had a filling breakfast.

          By the time he'd finished his summery he'd also finished his porridge, "I'm just going to change then I'll get back to it. Stay out of this Miss-" he stopped himself just as her eyes began to narrow into their stern look, " _Joan_ " he corrected quickly "I don't want something to happen to you."

          She stood up, his empty bowl in hand, "I'll be fine. I leave this sort of thing to Father Brown and Mallory. If I help it's in the brainstorming part around the kitchen table with Mrs McCarthy's scones; or if Father Brown needs to see a police report."

          "Don't" he warned her firmly.

          "Then you best be as accommodating as possible" she informed him primly as she dumped the bowl in the sink. "Now go change and get back to work." She gave him a quick peck on the cheek and left for the presbytery and her own work.

 

          Three days later--and only one possible suspect that turned out to be nothing--Joan was cleaning out the holding cells when she heard the unmistakably brisk voice of her father. She dropped the brush she was using the scrub the wall someone had peed on and raced to the open doorway where she peered around the edge to hopefully dissuade her sudden fear.

          But no, Fred Thursday was standing at the front desk bearing down on Goodfellow, demanding to know where Morse was. Her mother, she could see, was sitting on the bench by the entry door looking mildly ashamed of her husband's behaviour. With a shiver of dread, Joan poked her head back around the corner just as her father slammed his fist against Goodfellow's desk.

          What was her dad doing here?

          The minutes seemed to tick by at a snail's pace--and my goodness did she now understand that saying--before Mallory stormed out of his office; his face was red, his eyes were glaring daggers, and for some reason Joan thought his mustache looked funny--though she managed to not laugh. Mallory looked to Goodfellow and then her father before turning back to his sergeant and demanding to know what was going on.

          "Well Sir," Goodfellow began before her father cut him off.

          "I'm Inspector Thursday, Oxford Police, I just thought I'd pop 'round and see what my constable, Morse, has been up to on his holiday. Certainly now that Bright says he's put in for permission to help with a case you've got going on."

          "Ah, yes," Mallory began and Joan could feel things falling apart, "he'd be out following some lead of his, or the padre's now that it seems they're in cahoots. Your daughter should be around here somewhere, unless she's finished early. Goodfellow?"

          "No Sir, last I saw Mrs Morse she said she was heading to clean the holding cells."

          From around her corner Joan winced; she was in heaps of trouble now. Her mother shot from where she sat demurely and all but demanded, "Joanie?"

          Her father carried her mother's surprise if a bit more coherently, "Joan's here? With Morse?"

          Mallory scoffed and looked about to ready say something when the station door opened and Morse walked in, "We need to bring the mechanic's sister in for questioning," he stated not seeming to notice the auto crash occurring before him, too busy checking his notebook, "Mildred. She's either involved or hiding something."

          "Morse" her father called his name in a cool manner, but as if he was also trying to get his young constable's attention. Joan had seen him call out to him like that numerous times before.

          Morse looked up from his little notebook and started seeing her father there, "Inspector Thursday, what are you doing in Kembleford?"

          "Bright told me you'd put in to help the local police, thought I'd come down and see what it was all about, especially since this was after you put in for a month's leave. You've never taken holiday, not without it being forced on you. Win and I were concerned."

          "So you followed me?" Morse questioned. Joan couldn't tell if his tone was defensive, insulted, cautious, or curious.

          "Win's been wanting a bit of a holiday away from the house now that Sam's joined the army and Joanie's-"

          "Is she really here?" her mother asked stepping into the defeated pause that her father left after her name. "Is Joan really in Kembleford? How did you find her?"

          "Is there something you and your wife aren't telling me Constable Morse?" Mallory suddenly demanded voice rising again. "For that matter is she even your wife? Is that even your child?"

          Joan swallowed against the fear of everything possibly unraveling and stepped out of her hiding spot, "Endeavour!" she called rushing to his side and pulling him down to place a kiss to his cheek, "ready for lunch?" She turned to Mallory and Goodfellow, "I finished the cells and that should be it for the day unless there was something else. I sorted your office but didn't touch the reports, don't worry Sir" she stated seeing Mallory start to say something. "Mum, Dad, what are you doing here?"

          Her attempt at a breezy entrance seemed to have stunned her parents--and Morse with the use of his Christian name--into silence as all they could do was stare at her, mouths ajar. It was her father that recovered first, unfortunately, "Joan, what are you doing here?"

          She raised an eyebrow, cocked a hip--while keeping an arm looped through one of Morse's--and stated rather obviously, "Working, isn't rather obvious?" She turned to Morse and gave a light pull to his arm, "Come along, you know Mrs McCarthy doesn't like to be kept waiting and she mentioned that she had urgent errands to run in the afternoon so she couldn't keep Verity."

          Morse seemed to snap out of whatever stupor he'd stumbled into and with an arm around her waist led her away from the shocked and questioning gazes of her parents, and the curious gazes of the Kembleford police force.

 

          Having lunch with Morse was an ordinary occurrence. Some days it was the only meal Joan knew for certain that Morse had had; they either ate at the presbytery when she picked Verity up or at the house, sometimes with Verity and sometimes without. Today they sat around Father Brown's table, with the man himself, as Joan explained what had happened at the police station to both her Catholic priest--she had been raised Anglican, but Father Brown didn't hold it against her, especially since she'd been more lapsed than devout--and the father of her child.

          "What a fine mess, if you'll allow me to say," Father Brown stated simply as she finished the explanation. In response to his statement Joan dropped her head to the table top and groaned.

          "What are we going to do?" she asked after a moment looking up at the only two people in Kembleford that knew everything she had made of her life was a lie.

          "You have to tell them," Morse stated simply, logically.

          "I can't do that. Mum will _kill_ me. _Dad_ will kill _you_."

          "You can't keep lying to them," Morse continued. Joan had a feeling the speech she was about to receive had been pre-prepared and rehearsed.

          "He's correct," Father Brown said simple as he washed down part of his meat pie with a sip of tea, "but there is another solution if you'll both allow it."

          "What?" she and Morse asked simultaneously.

          Father Brown smiled that smile that sent chills down Joan's spin but also told her he was on to something that would inevitably turn out just how he thought it would.

          "I can marry you both for real."

 

          Joan was infinitely grateful Morse had to get back to work after lunch because that left her time to continue freaking out about Father Brown's suggestion, only now in private. Verity was playing with her toys so Joan took a seat at the kitchen table and seriously considered her options.

          Father Brown had made a few good points. Just a few though, the primary one being that it would make their so-called marriage legitimate, and so long as no one found the real marriage certificate they wouldn't know there had been a lie. He'd also been correct when he pointed out that Joan had feelings--romantic feelings--for Morse. Morse had kept silent in regard to his feelings, though Joan remembered what he'd said that day as she was leaving Oxford, the day they'd conceived their child.

          With a deep sigh she rose from her seat and headed for the cupboard beneath the kitchen sink. With a growing sense of trepidation she pulled out the monogrammed handkerchief Flambeau had included with one of his letters and placed it neatly folded beneath the corner of the pot of daffodils that he had sent for her birthday. He'd mentioned once that she could get in touch with him should she need to in this way. At the time she'd crumpled the letter and swore it would never happen. Even now she didn't know why she was doing it.

          A knock at the door startled her to the point that she almost knocked the pot over, but she managed to catch it and right it in time. With a hand to her suddenly racing heart and headed for the door.

          There was no way Flambeau could be here already. Besides, he _never_ knocked.

          "Hello," she greeted as she swung the door open. A moment later she saw her mother. She desperately wanted to close the door, but her mother had raised her with more manners, so Joan smiled--albeit tightly--and motioned for her mother to come in. "What are you doing here?" she asked once the door had been shut behind the Thursday matriarch.

          Her mother wrung her hands together before responding, "You're my daughter, I was worried."

          Joan smiled, "I'm fine. I've been taking care of myself."

          At just that moment Joan had to hang her head as Verity let out some sort of half cry half giggle. Win Thursday turned and stared open mouthed and shocked at the sight of a dark haired, blue eyed baby girl. Her mother looked between her and the infant several times before finally managing to squeak out, "Is she-?"

          She could only nod before finally swallowing past that lump of fear in her throat and managing to say, "Her name's Verity."

          "Verity?" her mother repeated sounding ... lost, "what sort of name is that?"

          "It means truth, I thought, with Morse's mother having been a Quaker it might be nice to somewhat honour her this way."

          "Morse?" her mother repeated in that dazed whisper. "Is he the father?"

          She had to laugh at the question. Had they not established at the police station earlier that she and Morse were married? Or had she been so terrified about what was happening that it hadn't been made clear? "Yes mum, he's Verity's father. And my husband."

          "When did all this happen?"

          Again she swallowed passed the lump in her throat to say, "Well Verity will be a year next month, add nine months to that and there you go." She could have done without the sass, she knew that but she didn't know what else to say. She and Morse had never really discussed ... well, anything. How could she tell her parents when they might have gotten married when beyond the cover she had given everyone in Kembleford there was no reference point, especially with her parents that lived in Oxford where they supposedly got married. Oh this was a horrid mess.

          "So, you and Morse have been together for a while." It sounded like it should be a question but the shock and awe in her mother's voice and on her face made it seem more of an observation.

          "It's really all rather complicated mum, and I'd feel better telling you about if dad and Morse were here too." She had to mentally wipe her brow for that quick thinking.

          "Complicated?"

          "Well not so much complicated as it is ..." think Joan, think, "it's a tale. Please, mum ..." she didn't entirely know what she was begging for there, but she honestly didn't know what else to say at that moment.

          Win sighed and nodded her head seeming defeated, "All right, how about dad and I come 'round tonight?"

          She had to swallow back that anxiety again, "Not tonight. We've plans to meet Father Brown at the presbytery"--complete lie--"and really I should discuss it with Morse first. How long are you staying for?"

          "Well, dad and I hadn't discussed it really, but now ..." her mother trailed off eyes watching Verity suck on the worn out ear of that teddy bear Flambeau had bought her.

          "Where are you staying?"

          "That little inn."

          "Of course, I should have known, it's the only place."

          "Is it?"

          "Well, there's the inn and a boarding house, beyond that you'd need to find a resident to put you up and most homes are fit for just the occupants."

          Her mother nodded as she looked around Joan's home, perhaps wondering if she could manage an invite to stay there. It was like she'd said though, there wouldn't be room. And she certainly couldn't have her parents finding out Morse was sleeping on the sofa because they weren't actually married.

 

          Because she'd told her mother they were going to Father Brown's for dinner she loaded Verity up, found Morse thinking over possible theories in the pub, and dragged everyone to the presbytery. She'd bought groceries and made a quick stew for everyone once they'd arrived, Mrs McCarthy had been grateful for night off and had retired home early.

          She'd just called everyone to the table to eat when behind her she _felt_ a presence. She turned with a jump and immediately shrieked only for Flambeau to laugh right in her face and take the bowl of stew she'd been holding from her hand. Morse and Father Brown appeared in the doorway seconds later both demanding to know what had happened and if she was alright.

          At the table, spoon in hand, Flambeau offered a cheeky smile and waved; Joan grumbled, "You need better locks."

          Father Brown regarded the new arrival with an indescribable look that could have been exasperation but could also have been amusement and simply stated, "Evidently, though I don't think that would stop him."

          "Most likely not," Flambeau agreed. "Lovely meal Joan."

          And then realization clicked with Morse, Joan saw that exact second, "Flambeau."

          "Endeavour Morse, making an honest woman of my _darling sister_?"

          "Shove off," she informed him darkly though a touch of fondness somehow crept into her proclamation.

          "Why shouldn't I arrest you right here, right now?" Morse asked hands hanging at his sides.

          Flambeau smiled his evil little smug smile and pointed his spoon at her, "I was invited."

          "Not here," she bit out.

          Both Father Brown and Morse turned to face her, looks of incredulity and horrified shock on their faces. She simply sighed and pulled another bowl down from the cupboard, filled it up, and took her place at the table.

          With a bit of grumbling from Flambeau they made their way through Grace and tucked into their meal. After a couple minutes of silent eating Flambeau leaned back in his seat and asked, "So why am I here?"

          They all turned to look at him. Joan responded with sass, "Only you can tell us that, you are the one that decided to come here."

          Flambeau gave her a look she'd seen too many times from her actual brother, "You asked me here, remember."

          "And again, not _here_!" she managed through clenched teeth. She _had_ known sending that message was a bad idea.

          "Well?" he asked simply, crossing his arms over his chest now. Looking around the table she found everyone watching her. Everyone; including Verity in her high chair, massed carrots all over her chin and face.

          "I'd really rather have this discussion elsewhere."

          "Is this related to mummy and daddy being here?"

          She glared at the thief, "How do you know about that?" He simply raised an eyebrow, the message behind the gesture clear. "Fine, it's something to do with it, but really I'd rather this conversation in private."

          "You're welcome to my study" Father Brown suddenly offered.

          "Shall we?" he asked having risen from the table and offering her his hand. Why did he have to be such a gentleman? It made it hard to be angry with him and dislike him.

          She shut the door firmly behind them and even opted to lean against it, hoping it might let her know if they were being spied on. Flambeau took a seat on the edge of Father Brown's desk and watched her.

          With a defeated sigh she finally told him everything that had happened through the day. She started with her parents walking into the police station, included the part about Father Brown offering to marry her and Morse for real and keep that they hadn't been prior a secret, and finished with her mother inviting herself and her father to dinner. She ended it all by collapsing onto the floor in front of the door with a whimpered, "What am I going to do?"

          Flambeau regarded her for what felt like an hour before finally asking, "Why did you think I could help?"

          She looked up at him and sighed again--she'd been doing that a lot today--"I don't know. I think I just needed to say it all to someone that knew the truth."

          "And you couldn't with Father Brown or Morse?"

          She shook her head, "It's complicated."

          Flambeau sighed and came over to sit next to her on the floor; the action surprised her greatly. "So what did you leave out?"

          She looked over at him and sighed as she dropped her head to his shoulder. "I love him. I love Morse and I don't think he feels the same. I don't want to push him into anything and I feel I already did that when I sent that crossword to him. I mean, I don't even know if he wants to be a father!"

          Flambeau laughed beneath her cheek, causing her whole head to move, "It sounds like there is a rather easy solution to your problem," she raised her head to look up at him. With a sigh, probably realizing she wasn't going to get it without him saying it, Flambeau spelled it out for her, "Talk to him."

          Joan, rather maturely, scrunched her face up at him.


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One chapter left. Unless something comes up, but nothing has. We'll see after the next series of Endeavour airs though, but nothing for far from Father Brown. Sorry for delay (but then months between posts seems to be my posting schedule with this fic).

# Chapter Six

          After a good cry--embarrassingly into Flambeau's well tailored shoulder--the thief left Joan to compose herself. Just as she was preparing to head out and finish her meal the door opened again and Morse stepped in. He watched her carefully as he slowly shut the door again behind him.

          "Flambeau said you wanted to talk," he said after a moment of awkward silence.

          She had to laugh at that. "He said that to me too," she'd said it before she'd realized it and once she had she regretted it. Especially once she saw the look he gave her.

          Looking around Father Brown's study she sighed and took the spot Flambeau had abandoned on the edge of the desk. "My mum came by the house earlier today," she started, "had questions but I managed to put her off for a bit. We need to figure things out though. I mean we've been saying we married in Oxford, but I don't know how well that will work with them. And really, we should discuss what's going to happen going forward. I mean, what's going to happen when your leave is over? Then there's ..."

          Morse grabbed her by both shoulders and rather effectively shut her up by kissing her. She melted against him, hands wrapping themselves in the front of his shirt and holding on because his hands on her shoulders and her hands in his shirt were the only things keeping her upright in that moment.

          Finally they pulled apart as air became an issue; the same had happened the last time they kissed like this, or course they'd then moved into the Jaguar and in the twenty minutes that followed Verity was conceived.

          Joan's forehead rested against Morse's as they both tried to catch their breath. She could see the smile in his eyes as they stood there.

          "I don't know how things will work out, but we will make certain they do," he said. "Things don't seem the best in Oxford and perhaps Mallory will need a hand around here permanently."

          Joan laughed but also had to wonder what he meant by the first of his remark. "He'd put you in charge of keeping Father Brown away."

          Morse laughed as well, "Likely. We _will_ figure this out. I'll talk to Father Brown and see if he won't help us out tomorrow."

          "You mean-"

          "Joan Thursday" Joan smiled inside hearing him use her Christian name without being nagged to, "will you marry me?"

          She screamed. Honest to goodness screamed as she threw her arms around Morse and kissed him. Against his lips she said yes. She said yes over and over again and she could feel his smile against her own lips as he returned every kiss she gave him.

          A sharp knock accompanied by Flambeau's "My niece doesn't need a sibling yet" had Joan throwing a book on Father Brown's desk blindly towards the door.

          After several minutes of kissing and smiling and kissing again, Joan bent down to pick up the book she'd thrown as Morse opened the door. Joan winced slightly as she saw it was a Bible and she quickly placed it back on Father Brown's desk before taking Morse's offered hand and leaving the room.

          Father Brown was sitting at the dinner table where she'd left him, a smug smile on his face saying that he knew this would happen. Flambeau was nowhere in sight. She and Morse took their abandoned seats around the table, and as they finished their meal went over a hasty plan to see them married as early as possible tomorrow.

 

          The next morning they arrived to drop Verity off with Mrs McCarthy and to be wed by Father Brown in secret, but found he had been called out on church business. Somewhat worried, Joan walked with Morse to the station, offered him a kiss, and both went about their day.

          Lunch arrived with Joan's stomach a knot of butterflies and worries. Her father had been to the station while she was cleaning the windows. He'd had stern looks and words for her about her choices, and her current job in particular. He'd grumbled about her relationship with Morse; and finally he asked when he could see his granddaughter. Joan smiled as best she could around her nerves and promised him soon. Nothing more specific, just soon.

          Morse wrapped his arms around her waist from behind, enveloping her in a comforting hug--an uncharacteristic action for him, but then she'd never actually known him in a romantic fashion; and he'd surprised her with being a thoroughly attentive father--and placed a chaste kiss to first the back of her neck and then beneath her ear.

          "Father Brown says everything should be ready. I checked," he whispered into her ear, hot breath ticking her skin and rustling her hair. Needless to say what else his attentions were doing to her.

          She turned to face him with a smile and kissed him. Uncaring that Goodfellow was at the front desk watching them, and that they'd never behaved this way before. But then before they'd been dancing around each other, unsure where they stood when looking back Joan's certain they both knew and were just too nervous to act on the truth.

          "I believe that's all for me today, Goodfellow" she told their audience. Reluctantly she unwound herself from Morse and collected her cleaning supplies. In the broom cupboard in the back, she removed her apron and checked herself in the little mirror she had hung not long after she started working there.

          She didn't look like a bride-to-be, but then in the world's eyes she was already married so why should she? She'd dressed in a her best dress that was still considered casual, pleased that while not white it was a pale blue--in the romantic part of her mind, she was rejoicing at the 'something blue'. Her hair was done simply as was her makeup; when she'd woken she'd thought she'd have to work afterwards. Now her wedding was after work.

          She wasn't going to get much better than what she was now, not without heading home to change, so she collected her purse and coat and headed out to meet Morse. And heading home to change just didn't seem right. It felt like it would be tempting fate. Not to say what the neighbours would think if they'd seen her before and then after, and no doubt she'd want to change back to something casual after their quick little ceremony.

          Morse was at the front desk casually conversing with Goodfellow and her father about the case. The butterflies became worse as she pulled her purse further up her shoulder, straightened her coat, and headed to Morse's side. He never even glanced at her as he wrapped an arm around her waist, he did turn to her with a smile as he laid a kiss to her temple.

          She smiled back, "Ready to go?" He nodded and began to turn to lead them out, even as he said goodbye to his companions.

          "Where are you heading off too?" her father asked causing her to falter. She truly felt like a child sneaking about behind her parent's backs to see a boy. She remembered what had happened when her father had learnt about the relationship. Owen had refused to even look at her right up to the day he left Oxford for work in London.

          "Lunch at Father Brown's," Morse responded casually.

          She'd turned with him and saw her father's face twist with surprise. "Is that so? Possible to join you both?"

          Joan smiled tightly against her nerves, "I'm not sure Mrs McCarthy would have made enough food. She's only expecting Morse and I, and of course Father Brown."

          Her father watched her, like he knew she was hiding something, before finally nodding, "Understandable. Your mum and I would like to meet your friends at some point though."

          "Of course, perhaps tomorrow night I can have all of you over for supper. I'm sure I could whip something up." She turned to Goodfellow, "You'll be there won't you? You are a friend after all. Oh, and let Mallory know. I know his wife is out of town visiting her sister-in-law, so I'm sure he'd enjoy it."

          "Of course," Goodfellow said beaming at the prospect of the dinner party, "I'm sure Inspector Mallory might even be kind enough to give you the day if you promise to make that pie he said he loved so much."

          With a genuine smile, Joan agreed. She left with Morse after saying goodbye again and they headed for Saint Mary's.

 

          The ceremony was quick and simple. Just Joan, Morse, Father Brown and Verity. Thankfully they hadn't needed to find a reason to keep Mrs McCarthy from snooping on them as she'd needed to run out to deliver soup to Mrs Lynwood who had broken an ankle and two sick children to look after.

          The vows said and with Father Brown proclaiming them officially and truly husband and wife, they all returned to the Father's kitchen and the lunch that was waiting for them. At first Joan thought Mrs McCarthy had had lunch and forgot to clean up, but then she noticed the envelope that sat next to the crumb filled plate.

          As Father Brown served both herself and Morse--who insisted she _never_ call him Endeavour as he thoroughly disliked the name--a generous helping each of meat pie, Joan lifted the envelope and sighed at the familiar writing. She turned it over to show Morse who simply shook his head with a mild chuckle.

          Falling into a chair she showed it to Father Brown. "Is it too much to hope it's simply a wedding gift from your _dear brother_?"

          "I truly regret having ever tried to help him," she responded forlornly tucking the envelope into Verity's pram. She'd examine the contents later, at home.

          She found herself eating quickly, though it was Morse who was finished first. With a partial smile, he offered to take both of their plates--and Flambeau's--to the sink to clean. Once done, Father Brown sighed at the both of them and waved them away.

          Smiling they walked back to their little home; Joan pushing the pram, while Morse held their sleeping daughter. They were just turning up the walkway when they heard someone calling out behind them. Something akin to dread dropping into the pit of Joan's stomach as she turned to greet Bunty, followed closely by Win Thursday.

          "Bunty, mum, what can we do for you?" she asked hoping her smile was warm and inviting when all she wanted to do get inside her home, put her daughter to bed, and take her husband to her own. It was a newlywed's right after all.

          "Oh, I just ran into this sweet girl in one of the shops and she mentioned that she was friends with you," her mother said indicating Bunty. All the while her eyes were focused on Verity sleeping in Morse's arms, head pillowed on his shoulder as she sucked on her fist. "She looks quite comfortable."

          Morse offered her a quick look and they both smiled. "It will be difficult to put her down, for sure," he told his new mother-in-law. "I don't know if you've heard yet, but we've invited you over for supper tomorrow night. Yourselves, Goodfellow, Mallory, Father Brown, Mrs McCarthy, and you too Bunty."

          "Oh how lovely!" Bunty exclaimed clapping her hands together, "anything we should know?"

          Joan gave her husband a sharp look and he returned it with his usual stoicism. He was right though, she'd already made the offer to her father, Goodfellow, and Mallory. And they had told Father Brown about it over lunch.

          "Just don't expect too much," Joan replied, "this will be my first try at a dinner party. And it really won't be a party even. Just a chance for mum and dad to meet all our friends in Kembleford."

          "Well I think it's grand, Joan dear. If there's anything you'd like a hand with, please, I'd be happy to help," her mother said with what looked suspiciously like a forced smile. No doubt she was remembering Joan's attempts at cooking. But thankfully Mrs McCarthy has given her extensive lessons and she'd vastly improved.

          "Thank you mum, I'll remember that, but hopefully it won't be necessary." A look of concern crossed her mother's face at Joan's response but she let it pass without further remark.

          Morse placed a hand to Joan's back and said, "If you don't mind I think we'll head in. Verity's starting to get a little heavy." He nodded by way of goodbye, as he started leading Joan up the walk to the door.

          Joan understood what he was doing, loved him excessively for it, but still she was worried they'd be seen as rude. "We'd invite you in, but in light to tomorrow I'd like to get a thorough cleaning started. Not something to do with company."

          Bunty laughed heartily and agreed, waving goodbye to them. Her mother had something like an awed look on her face as she watched Morse with her daughter and granddaughter.

          Morse brought Verity upstairs and carefully put her in her crib as Joan headed for their bedroom. _Their_ bedroom because for the first time since Morse came to Kembleford he had slept in the bed with her last night. And he would do more than sleeping this afternoon if Joan had her say.

          She remembered every moment from their one time together, that moment they had conceived their daughter, but there hadn't been anything romantic about it. They had been frantic.

 

          They stood in the street, morning fog curling around them as Morse made his pitch for her to stay, "Just give it time. Everything that happened, just give it a chance," he implored. "You mean the world to them," he added. Joan simply smiled sadly at that. She meant the world to her parents and yet she'd nearly ruined the whole family with her own stupidity.

          "You mean the world," Morse seemed to choke on the words there. Joan didn't know what to say to him. To this man she had fallen stupidly in love with after he walked her home from a disastrous date with Jakes. A man she had pined for even as he remained oblivious to her existence as a woman, seeing her only as his boss's daughter.

          Morse swallowed passed whatever it was that was giving him trouble, just as Joan was preparing to ask something of him she had no right to.

          "You mean the world to me."  
          She blinked up at him in surprise, certain she had not just heard what she had thought he'd said. And then she saw his face and knew it was true. That what he'd said had been true.

          Joan wasn't sure who moved first, just that one moment they'd been standing on the sidewalk staring at each other after Morse's confession and the next they were wrapped in each other's arms, lips pressed together in a kiss that never even had the chance to start sweet. It was pure passion. It took her breath away, not that she'd had any after the scope of Morse's words had sunk in.

          And by God above and all his saints and angels, who knew Detective Constable Morse could kiss like that? Joan certainly hadn't. He always seemed too shy and thoughtful to be able to kiss a woman so completely she forgot everything there was to know.

          A clock chiming in the distance had them pulling away from each other, if still holding on for dear life but not connected at the lips was considered away from each other. She was in a daze and not thinking properly, because the moment Morse's lips left hers and instead connected with her neck, she lost whatever vague sense of decorum she had left. Her hands threaded in his hair as she--most improperly--lifted a leg in effort to wrap it around his hips; he grasped the back of her thigh to help her and then with his other hand pulled the other leg up.

          She was lost in the sheer pleasure of having him close to her that it took her a moment to realize they'd moved. Not much, just in such a way that she was seated on the front hood of that jaguar Morse always drove her father around in. Not that the car mattered beyond something she could lean back on as Morse pushed her coat aside and began to unbutton her blouse; her skirt was already bunched most indecently around her hips from when he'd lifted her.

          It was the cool morning air hitting her newly exposed--and heated--flesh that had her hissing. They moved quickly into the car, neither really speaking as they moved, their lips having reconnected. They made it in, half blind as they were, focused solely on each other. They tumbled in across the driver's seat and passengers before Morse sat up and pulled her into his lap.

          She could feel him through his trousers. The full hard length of him that she was too in love with at the moment to feel nervous over. Her hands were busy trying to pull his jumper up, and finally she did get it over his head, only to be met with a slightly wrinkled dress shirt beneath. She huffed at him and began working the buttons only to be distracted when Morse took her covered breast into his mouth, brassiere and all.

          "Morse" she pleaded, though for what she wasn't sure. All she knew was him and that if he stopped she'd die. Just as surely as what he was doing was killing her. She was gone, lost, either way she saw things, and it was all for Morse.

          Her brassiere was removed without her being fully aware of it until his mouth latched back on and nipped at her painfully pebbled nipple. Her hands wrapped back into his hair and held him in place at her breast as she moaned at the sensations, hips rocking against him.

          But then she was being lifted slightly. She hadn't been aware of his hands between them, undoing his trousers and releasing himself, or of his removing her panties. She hadn't been aware of anything except his mouth on her until he lifted her up and then guided her back down, onto him, spearing her with his length.

 

          Joan rolled over in their bed, sheets half tangled in their legs and half strewn on the floor with their clothes. This was the first time she was really getting the chance to see her husband naked. That same passionate frenzy as last time had over taken her when he'd come into the room. They'd stripped each other of their clothes in the time it took to travel from doorway--she'd been waiting for him--to bed. They'd landed on the bed, springs bouncing them slightly, as they rolled a couple times, lips locked before Morse slide back home. Back where he belonged with her. In her. In her body and in her heart.

          Now she rested her chin on his chest and smiled up at him. This was the second time she could truly say she'd ever seen him at peace. The first had been his second morning here, she'd woken up and gone to check on Verity and found her fast asleep in her father's arms, him asleep in the rocking chair next to her crib.

          "What are you thinking?" she asked laying a kiss to his chest.

          He smiled at her, "Nothing."

          "Nothing?" she asked with a laugh. "I find that hard to believe."

          "And why is that?"

          "You're always thinking, _Endeavour_ Morse."

          He mock glared at her for the use of his name, "Perhaps you have rendered me thoughtless, _Mrs Morse_."

          If he'd been trying to get back at her for using his Christian name it failed. "Say it again," she instructed giddiness whirling through her.

          "What?"

          "Mrs Morse."

          He chuckled but did as instructed, numerous times, laying a kiss to her lips between each utterance.

          "What are you thinking?" he asked several minutes after they stopped kissing and had resumed cuddling.

          Joan looked up at him again and smiled, "Nothing."

          "Nothing?" he asked, repeating her response.

          She scrunched up her nose in response. Morse gave her a knowing look and smiled, triumph in his laughing gaze. Joan was most surprised by this almost playful side to her so thoughtful husband, she'd have to make sure he was always this relaxed if that's what it took to see it more often. "I was wondering if it was too soon for Verity to have a sibling."

          "I honestly can't say," Morse replied, brow furrowing, like he was actually trying to figure it out. "I missed everything with her."

          "You won't with the second. Or third. Or for however many we might end up having," she told him, a finger trailing down his cheek.

          The smile he gave her in reply was not like the ones she'd been getting since returning home. It was one of his reserved, thoughtful ones. She propped herself up on her elbows and looked down at him, "What?"

          "Nothing."

          "Not nothing. I know you Morse. I know your looks. There's something there, what is it?" she asked. Or perhaps demanded. God, what if he didn't want another child?

          "Just wondering what it would be like. My father was never a father, and my mother died ..."

          She lowered herself back down to rest her cheek on his chest. Laying sweet kisses over his heart, a heart she knew belonged to her. "We'll figure it out as we go. I know that's not the greatest of plans, but that's all anyone can do, isn't it. Besides, we'll have everyone's help and support. Father Brown, Mrs McCarthy, Bunty, even Sid when he gets out of prison."

          "Flambeau?" Morse asked giving her a rueful look.

          Joan groaned at that, "and Flambeau. You do know I genuinely hate myself for having caused all this with him."

          "He's a criminal, but from what little I've seen of him he seems to be a genuine sort."

          "For a criminal," she reminded him. It wouldn't do any good if Morse started accepting him like Joan had found herself doing.

          "Yes, for a criminal who steals indiscriminately."

          "And a scoundrel." Morse gave her a questioning look in response. She sighed and rolled her eyes, "He has something of an illegitimate child, remember. And Sid told me about this time he was trying to steal a rosary, with Father Brown's assistance, though the Father knew it and was trying to get to the rosary before him though they were working together," Morse gave her a look, she rolled her eyes. "Anyway, they'd stopped at an inn for the night, and Sid swears that not only had Flambeau slipped him some sort of drug or something but also stole a woman from him. Apparently they could be heard all night."

          Morse shook his head and laughed. She lightly slapped his chest giving him a look. He simply raised his brows, a devilish grin on his face as he told her, "it takes a fair amount of stamina to go that long." This time she slapped him in earnest.

          They lay back on the bed for several minutes after that. Just listening to the world outside their home. After several minutes Joan broke the silence, "I wonder what it was he left us."

          "Check, the envelope was in my pocket."

          She gave him a look for having taken it from the pram but rose from the bed, not caring about her nakedness. She found his jacket on the floor and fished the envelope from the pocket inside. Returning to the bed she curled back into him as she opened the unsealed flap and pulled the sheets of paper that were inside out.

          She read the short letter aloud, "Date's for two days before the robbery. Congratulations little sister. If you need anything, you know how."

          She turned to Morse who was holding the other paper and he turned it to show her. A marriage certificate in their names, dated--as Flambeau had said--two days before the bank robbery that had started this all.

          Morse smiled and kissed her, "Trust a thief to know a forger."

          It was a better wedding present than she'd ever thought she'd get from her brother.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, the end. Beautiful and bittersweet; or at least it was when I was writing it.

# Chapter Seven

          Joan opened the front door hoping her smile didn't look too harried. Her parents greeted her with smiles and hugs and followed her into the house. She took their coats and hung them on the rack next to the door, a rack both her parents eyed with a slight smile and a nod of the head.

          She waved them to the sofa and chairs scattered about the main room as she made quick apologizes and rushed off to the kitchen to check on the roast she had in the oven. Unfortunately her kitchen was only half hidden from the main room by a half-wall and cabinet-counter combo, so she couldn't collapse onto the small kitchen table and cry like she wanted.

          Mrs McCarthy had been the first person to arrive; she came with Verity from the presbytery around four and had kept a respectful distance from the kitchen while keeping the infant occupied. Morse had arrived next bringing with him Mallory and Goodfellow from the station. Father Brown had appeared just moments before her parents and Bunty had yet to show, though Joan suspected part of that was her wanting to make an entrance.

          That morning, as she and Morse were moving the borrowed dining table from her neighbours in, they went over their story. With Flambeau's fake marriage license and the story she'd been telling everyone in Kembleford there really wasn't much to figure out, except how things went in Oxford behind her parent's back.

          Another knock at the door had Joan re-adjusting her skirt and hair before quickly heading out to answer. Only Morse had beaten her to it and Bunty was standing smiling and regaling everyone with how some child ran in front of her motor and it was only her brilliant driving that had saved the child's life. Mallory looked about ready to throw a fit.

          "Bunty, so good to see you," Joan greeted giving her a quick hug. "Can I get you something to drink? And refresh anyone else's? Dinner shouldn't be much longer."

          She looked around the room at her guests before collecting the decanter and topping up Goodfellow and Father Brown's glass. Mrs McCarthy glaring daggers at both herself and Father Brown as she did. She handed Bunty a glass, catching the silent question in her friend's eye, the one that asked if everything was alright. Joan responded with a tight smile and an eye roll.

          She was wondering how much longer things would be when the little timer she had set went off. Offering everyone a quick smile she headed for the kitchen and pulled the roast from the oven. It wasn't burnt, it was clearly cooked, and it smelt amazing. Joan tried to keep her excitement over having done it successfully hidden as she moved the roast to a serving platter, placed the vegetables and potatoes around it, and brought it all out for everyone to see.

          Father Brown led everyone in grace before she and Morse began serving everyone. Her mother seemed surprised by the display, but her surprise vanished the moment she took a bite of the roast; her expression changing to one of delight. Smiling, Joan took a bite of the roast herself. It was _very_ good.

          Roughly halfway through dessert, Bunty opened her mouth and asked the question Joan was certain both her parents had been thinking since finding her in Kembleford. From her parent's faces, she imagined Fred and Win Thursday had both been rehearsing possible ways of asking that very question the entire evening.

          She caught Morse's eye and he wore an equally surprised expression to the one that she imagined she wore; and she imagined it was that 'caught with a hand in the cookie jar' expression.

          "Well, don't leave us in suspense," Bunty said waving her fork around. "How _did_ you two start up? You never actually told that story."

          They'd rehearsed the answer as many times as she's sure her parents rehearsed the question, but now faced with having to give that answer, Joan found herself unable. Thankfully Morse seemed to realize that. He carefully wiped his mouth with his napkin and then said, "It was while I was in prison."

          The room went silent and Joan could honestly hear the neighbours eating their own dinner next door in those long silent minutes.

          "You were in prison?" Mrs McCarthy asked, a hand over her heart in shock, her voice weak.

          "He was being framed," Joan replied quickly jumping to her husband's defence.

          Father Brown looked between the two of them, even sparing a glance at her father before inquiring, "How so?"

          "And don't leave anything out," Bunty added all too gleefully.

          "There's not much to tell," Morse said. "There was a case that involved a lot of dirty police men. When they tried to kill me and failed, they framed me for a murder," he stopped there the pain and memories clouding his eyes.

          Joan took his hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze before continuing for him, "they laid a trap for dad; took a bullet in the chest and nearly died. We're all glad you didn't, dad."

          "I think I remember hearing something about all that," Mallory said. "Something to do with a Chief Constable."

          "Chief Constable Standish. Assistant Chief Constable Clive Deare killed him and framed me for his murder," Morse explained.

          "Yes, but everything was cleared up and you got back to work," her father said in his gruff way hoping to put an end to the conversation.

          "Alright," Bunty said, "but what does that have to do with you two stepping out?"

          "Yes, how did that happen?" her father asked turning to face her and Morse, gruff suspicion levelled at them.

          "Joan came to see me while I was in prison," Morse stated.

          It was completely true too, she had gone to see him while he was locked inside. She'd been a completely nervous wreck the entire bus ride out to the prison, and it had taken her nearly an hour of pacing outside the prison to work up the nerve before she'd gone in. But sitting at that table, waiting for Morse to come into the room, she'd known she'd done the right thing.

          "You went to see him?" Win asked surprised. "When was this?"

          "After the doctors said dad would be fine. He couldn't come home yet though. I'd told you I was going to visit someone from school for the day. I wasn't sure if Morse would have heard about dad and I wanted him to hear it from someone he didn't have reason to doubt."

          That had been partially true. She had wanted all those things, but more than that she'd simply wanted to see him. She needed to know that he was alright. Somehow she wanted to tell him she cared even if she couldn't say those words.

          "I hadn't expected to see her there," Morse said, continuing the story. "I believe I even told you that you shouldn't be there," she smiled and nodded in response. "We ended up talking and things took off from there."

          "That's it?" Bunty stated sounding disappointed.

          "So you two were carrying on behind our backs for months," her father stated. He almost sounded angry but Joan couldn't be sure. "What was that about?"

          "That was my fault," Joan said quickly. "Morse wanted to be honest about it all, but I didn't want to say anything in case it didn't work out."

          "But you got married," Goodfellow non-to-helpfully pointed out.

          "So you are actually married?" Win asked looking between them somehow relieved and disappointed at the same time.

          She shared another quick look with Morse before opening her mouth to explain that, but Morse beat her to it. "It all happened very suddenly. We were going to tell you but then everything with the bank happened and Joan ran off. I only just found her again."

          "But why did you get married so suddenly?" her mother asked. And as if in answer to her mother's question Verity woke from her nap and started crying. Her mother's eyes widened in shock and understanding as she covered her open mouth with her hands.

          Her father stood from his chair, the legs scrapping loudly on the wooden floor as it nearly fell over behind him; anger was in his eyes. Morse stood just as quickly, perhaps knowing her father was going to try and attack him for the slight against her virtue. He offered her a quick smile and then stated for all to hear in a perfectly calm voice that he'd check on Verity. Her father watched him head up the stairs until Morse vanished from view, at which point her mother was able to coax him back into his chair.

          "So the whole thing about not knowing you were pregnant until after your husband didn't die in that bank robbery like you said was also a lie?" Mrs McCarthy asked after they all listened to Verity stop crying upstairs.

          Joan pursed her lips nervously and wished Morse would come back. Now. "More or less," she responded weakly.

          Joan expected her father's rage at her response, not her mother's strained, "How is that?"

          Oh God, the saints, and the angels above. Joan had in no way prepared for a question like that. Of course, she'd known the night would not go as perfectly as she'd planned and envisioned--even with the awkward conversation regarding her and Morse's marriage coming up--but still, where's the common courtesy?

          The only thing that could make this night worse would be for Flambeau to walk through the front door just then. With how her luck's been Joan spared a glance at the heavy wooden door. It stayed firmly shut. Joan wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not.

          "There'd been a scare," she fibbed hoping her nerves weren't written across her face. "Found out the day of it was just that--a scare. Morse and I were in love though and decided what the hell, why not. We might have celebrated it just being a scare a little too much, of course it was also our wedding night. Either way, next time was not a scare." The weak laugh that she ended her explanation with did nothing to lighten the mood.

          Oh she was praying to anyone that would listen for some form of reprieve right now. That and for Morse to have heard her rather flimsy lie and take it as gospel, along with every other lie they've been spreading about their relationship. That can't be good, could it? A relationship built on lies? Of course all these lies that their relationship is built on are for the people looking in, not them, so perhaps they're safe.

          "I do not need to be hearing this," her father suddenly said. His face was red with emotion--anger most likely--and he pushed away from the table and marched straight out the front door.

          Everyone looked to her mother. Winifred Thursday sighed and said, "Give him a moment, he just needs to calm down."

          Awkward silence descended on the room, no one feeling up for food anymore after that conversation. That was how things were when Morse returned a few minutes later, Verity with him.

          Bunty saw him and smiled, "Yeah what the hell indeed, I'd have married him too."

          That broke the tension and soon enough her mom and Mrs McCarthy moved away from the table and began fusing over who could hold Verity. Father Brown and Goodfellow stayed at the table while Bunty went in search of the liquor. Mallory excused himself, thanking her for the meal. She offered him the remainder of the sugar pie she had made--his favourite--and he accepted half before leaving.

          Clearing the dishes in the kitchen, Morse leaned over and kissed her temple, "What was that about?"

          "What?"

          "Bunty."

          "Ah, I added to our story a little," she explained before launching into the details of why they got married and how Verity was conceived. Morse responded with a chuckle. "You left me in a tight spot, what else was I to do?"

          "You're father _will_ kill me."

          "Mallory was present to know the motive."

          Morse laughed again, "That makes me feel better. All the times I thought I'd die on the job and to know this is how it'll happen," he shook his head.

          "Dad won't really kill you," she told him, "I think. He just needs to cool down. Mum's sure of it. Besides, he likes you."

          "I think it's past tense now Joan."

          She heard the front door open again, looking over she saw her father. He stood almost in a daze watching everyone in the room; his wife and the Irish-woman passive aggressively fighting to hold a toddler too happy at the attention to care about the fact she might soon get dizzy and sick from the constant back and forth; the priest, the constable, and the heiress getting drunk at the dinner table on cheap scotch--and was it just Joan or did that sound like the start of some joke?

          "Dad, can I get you anything?" she asked coming 'round the counter.

          He blinked back at her, as if he were trying to blink the cobwebs away. "I'm fine, Joanie, thanks," he replied returning his hat to the stand and taking a seat on the sofa next to his wife.

          Joan watched his movements carefully, right up until her mother and Mrs McCarthy stopped trying to take Verity from the other to let her dad hold his first grandchild. She smiled at the scene for a moment and returned to the kitchen.

          "That went better than I'd thought," she admitted in something of a daze herself.

          Morse smiled and offered her a kiss she gladly accepted. They washed and dried the dishes, the sounds of their friends and family in the background.

          Verity never cried for the rest of the evening, well until everyone started to depart. Goodfellow was the first, then Father Brown, Mrs McCarthy left twenty minutes later. Joan's sure Bunty would have been the last to leave if when the Thursday's finally gave in and started gathering their things they hadn't started to usher Bunty out with them.

          The house to themselves again, Joan took Verity up to bed and then began her own night time preparations. Morse came up just as she was crawling under the covers. "That could have been worse," he said as he removed his shirt.

          "How?"

          He shrugged like he hadn't actually thought of an answer, until he said "Dinner could have tasted like sawdust."

          She glared and tosses a pillow at his head. It went wide and landed in the hallway behind him. He regarded her and in the light cast from her bedside lamp and the moon outside the window she could tell he was trying not to laugh. She pouted and with a sigh he fetched the pillow, handing it back to her before joining her under the covers.

          Smiling contentedly, she curled into him. "We should have your sister over sometime."

          "We should," Morse responded after a moment.

          "Not right away though. I think we need time to recover from my parents. And you need to move all your things here from Oxford. Did you talk to Mallory about coming on?"

          "I did," he replied, "I just need to talk to Bright as well. I figure I'll head back next week and get things moving."

          "Do you want me to come with you?" she asked looking up at him, her cheek still pressed to his chest.

          "If you want. I don't think it's really necessary."

          "I'd like to," she murmured gently, receiving a kiss in reply. "We might be able to replace some of the furniture. Most of its rather old, and all of it was cheap. Lady Felicia gave me some items that she'd had in storage for years."

          "I don't think you'd want any of the furniture, but doesn't hurt to check."

          "You're chair?" she asked him with a laughing smile. "Dad has a chair at home. His thinking chair; if he's in it, he's got work on his mind." She looked back up at him to gage his reaction.

          He smiled and laid a kiss to the tip of her nose, "Alright, I've got a chair."

          In triumph she laughed, "Knew it!"

          "I'll have to return the car."

          "Bunty has oodles, I'm sure you can borrow from her."

          "Any jaguars? I've a certain fondness for them."

          She regarded her husband and couldn't tell if that was genuine man talk, or a joke about what they'd done in the front seat of one. "Oh God, you drove dad in that afterwards didn't you?"

          "No. Not that day at least. We had the day off because of the robbery."

          "Good," she said her horror disappearing. Until, "tell me you at least cleaned it before you had to though." Morse winced and she knew he hadn't. She gave him a gentle slap in response.

          "There'll be my records I'll want, and some books, but mostly that's all I'd bring over," he said after a few minutes. "Anything you might want to collect from your mum and dad's?"

          "I never thought of that," she answered honestly. "I think I've rather outgrown all the dolls though. I don't know if I'd even fit some of my old clothes, things have grown and not shrunk back since Verity was born."

          "I noticed that," Morse commented. With one hand he groped a breast and with the other he began messaging her hip. Yes, more than her breasts, her hips had grown since before her pregnancy and that was where her worry over the clothes lay more than her tops, the breasts had mostly gone back to what they were before.

          "But what about for Verity?" he asked letting go of her breast, but still massaging her hip.

          "True," she conceded. "Will the case be solved by the then? I know you don't like to leave things unfinished."

          "Already solved it. Just need to make the arrest."

          "You solved it?" she asked sitting up, the covers falling off around her. "You solved it and didn't immediately run off to arrest the culprit? I'm surprised Morse."

          "I came down and things seemed tense, figured my leaving would make it worse."

          She sighed and lay back down, "You figured it out tonight? During dinner?"

          "Verity helped," he admitted. "And Father Brown was thinking the same," he added as if that might make her feel better.

          "Well, out with it. Who killed the butcher?"

          "Andrew Carrow."

          "The school principal? How do you figure that?"

          "Carrow was dating Mildred Rathwell, the mechanic's sister, only she was seeing Lucas Henderson on the side. Anyway-"

          "Andrew found out and killed his rival," she finished. "Love or money. All crime comes down to love or money. What I don't get is Mr Henderson, he's old enough to be Mildred's father."

          "Actually, he's five years younger than her father."

          "He's forty-six, she's twenty-five."

          "I'm thirty-four," he remarked matter-of-factly, "and you're twenty-six."

          "Not as great an age gap. And you are nowhere near my father's age."

          "Fair enough."

          They lay in silence for several minutes before finally they both fell asleep.

 

          Neither of the home's occupants would know it but as they lay in bed, quietly discussing the cozy little murder case that had just been solved, down the hall a tall man with brown hair and the beginnings of a beard exited a room into the dark hallway, the couple's infant daughter playing with a stuffed hippo he'd just brought her. Carrying her down the stairs, a near impossible feat in the dark and with a squirming child but something that someone of this man's profession found simple, he headed for the kitchen.

          Depositing the child on the floor to play unhindered by the arms of others, he opened the refrigerator door and pulled out containers holding leftovers from the dinner the family had hosted earlier that night. Making his way to the small kitchen table with a plate and fork, he served himself out and enjoyed a home cooked meal made for family and friends. When he finished, he returned the remains to the fridge and washed the utensils he'd used.

          On the floor, the toddler was starting to tire of playing and he returned her to her crib upstairs. Listening carefully at the parents room he heard the silence that comes with sleep and made his way back downstairs.

          Just before leaving the home he pulled a neatly folded sheet of paper from his breast pocket and placed it on the table where the home owners would be able to see when they came down the next morning.

          Outside the home, Flambeau looked back up at the dark house and smiled. "Until next time little sister," he remarked returning the key to his pocket after locking the door behind him. Smiling he walked away knowing with the plans he had for a certain medallion it might be sometime before he could get back. Besides, she might enjoy hearing he was in prison, even if it's all a rouse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, hope you enjoyed this. I enjoyed writing it despite repeatedly running into walls. And who knows, perhaps at some point, if something happens, we'll get to peer in through one of the windows into the Morse home and see what they've been up to; but no promises (though seeing Joan's reaction to Flambeau in prison or his elaborate fake death scheme would be interesting). Again, no promises, but maybe, one day, eventually, maybe. As you can see, I'm very clear in what's going to happen. Again, I hope you enjoyed the story.


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